


Beautiful Sanity

by Accidental_Ducky



Series: Beautiful Monsters [1]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Asylum
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, F/M, Psychopaths and Sociopaths, Witches, mentions of other seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21976429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidental_Ducky/pseuds/Accidental_Ducky
Summary: She knows without turning that Jed has died just like she knows that her father is the one that killed him. The information doesn’t shock her like it probably should. Instead of crying, Camille raises her head and keeps walking.
Relationships: Oliver Thredson/Lana Winters (one-sided), Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Beautiful Monsters [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/591268
Kudos: 8





	1. One Step Closer

It’s during the first snowfall of winter in 1950 that Oliver Thredson decides he wants to be a father. It’s a thought he’s entertained for years, but it doesn’t come to any real fruition until he walks through a park and comes upon a sight that makes a raw burning in his chest start up again that he hasn’t felt since his own childhood.

There’s a child struggling to get up in a swing, bundled up but alone in the bitter cold that has Oliver’s nose stinging and his eyes watering. He crosses the park without a thought and helps the child onto the blue plastic, gray eyes peering up at him above a bright red scarf that looks handmade.

“Thank you,” the child says, voice soft and muffled.

“You’re very welcome,” Oliver replies, reaching out to straighten the knit beanie they’re wearing. _A little girl_ , he notes, _fragile_. He looks around in case he’d just missed an adult, but the benches are empty and the sidewalks are deserted. In a small town like this one, it isn’t exactly rare to see children at the park by themselves, but none are this young. “Where are your parents?”

“Sleepin’.”

“Do they know where you are?”

“Ma tol’ me to go play and leave her ‘lone.” Oliver nods and considers this for a moment, hands in the pockets of his heavy coat. As he does this, the rusted chains of the swing begin to squeak, the child’s legs pumping back and forth as she tries to build momentum. “What’s you name?” The broken grammar would normally irritate him, but it’s adorable when it comes out of a little girl’s mouth that’s still missing some teeth if the lisp is anything to go by.

“Oliver Thredson. What’s yours?” He fixes his gaze back on her, those serious gray eyes still on him.

“Camille Olivia if I’m in trouble. If I done somethin’ really bad, then my ma calls me a little asshole a’fore makin’ me go sit on the porch step to think about what I done.” She really has the swing going now, the squeaking chains grating on his nerves and little puffs of vapor showing whenever she exhales.

“Is that right? Do you have to sit on that step often?” She nods almost enthusiastically, the apples of her cheeks bright red from the cold. He laughs at her honesty and her eyes crinkle to show she’s smiling as well. “You’re lucky, I didn’t have a mother to sit me on a step for misbehaving.”

“How come you don’t have a mom?”

“She left me when I was very small. I suppose she didn’t want me.” The burning in his chest grows worse than ever, spreading up to his temples. Perhaps he needs to get a new girlfriend, one he can snuggle with on cold nights like this one and massage his shoulders. But that won’t work, they’re never the right one in the end.

“My ma’s boyfriend left last year. I don’t ‘member him much, just that he worked in Bangor.” He narrows his eyes at that, thoughts picking up speed as that age old idea becomes clearer than ever. This could be just what he needs, cut out the nagging girlfriend and just have a child instead. Little girls are always more inclined to love their fathers, why should this one be any different?

"How old are you, sweetheart?"

“Three,” she says, holding up two small fingers. After a second's hesitation, Oliver scoops the little girl up in his arms and begins to walk again, taking his usual route through the park to his house just two blocks away. He can feel the little girl shivering, though he can’t tell if it’s from the cold or fear. "Are you going to take care of me?"

"Yes, I'm going to be your father." It shouldn't be this simple, not in a small town like this one, there should have been someone to stop him from taking her away. Instead she just holds tighter to him and allows her eyes to close. “We’re going to be fine, Camille, I promise.”

And just like that, Oliver Thredson is one step closer to having everything he wants.

**2013**

It’s midnight when Erika’s curiosity gets the better of her and she sneaks into her dad’s office. He’s not in there of course, Aaron’s in bed by nine on most nights these days, but she has to be sure. There’s no need to get grounded the day before her first date.

She grabs the old photo album off her father’s desk and sneaks back to her bedroom, easing the door closed and pulling the knob up at the last minute to avoid the upper hinge squeaking. She stays there for a moment, ear against the warm wood and album clutched against her chest, but there’s no noise other than the occasional car passing by outside.

Satisfied, she moves to her bed and flips on the purple fairy lights she’s taped to the wall, just enough to see by on nights when the moon is full. The pictures at the front of the book are yellowed by time, the corners attempting to curl away from the glue holding them in place. Names and dates are written in chicken scratch on the bottom of each photo, showing smiling faces.

She brushes a finger over one picture in particular, smoothing down a corner for a moment. It shows a smiling couple with a baby settled between them, a little boy with a toothless grin and dimples that match his father’s. The man in the photo is handsome, hair still thick and full, sleek with whatever product had been popular back then.

 _“Aaron’s mom was a Witch, like us_ ,” Cordelia had said just last week. She’d been talking about the woman in the photo, the one that used to smile frequently and took special medicine because she’d have the worst nightmares. She never believed she was a Witch, she used to laugh such statements off because how could someone like her, an old woman, be magical? Looking down at her, her gray eyes wide and happy, Erika can believe her Nana was magical.

“I wish you were still here, Nana,” Erika says, words barely more than a huff of air. There’s no need to wake her father when he gets so little sleep as it is. “Maybe then you could tell me all sorts of things.”

Things like why Erika’s got magic when her father doesn’t, why she got telekinesis when no one else in her family tree has it. Mostly, she just wants to hear her nana singing again, an old song that used to make Papa sway gently with Erika before the arthritis got too bad.

She lays back in her bed, the album cradled against her chest like a teddy bear and just as precious in her mind. She hums that old song from the fifties and remembers her nana telling her all about how her daddy had sung it as a lullaby when she couldn’t sleep. Camille used to have nightmares even back then, only three and crying most nights until Oliver came in to check on her.

_Earth angel, earth angel, will you be mine? My darling dear, love you all the time…._

_[Outfits](https://www.deviantart.com/thenewfiredancer/gallery/74368278/beautiful-sanity-clothes) _


	2. Briarcliff

**1953**

Cameron Miller has a short fuse on his temper and scars on his knuckles. He enjoys the rush he gets when he sees fear in peoples’ eyes moments before he feels bones crack under his fist. It doesn’t make him a very suitable candidate for a third-grade teacher, but his class is the most well-behaved group in all of Wichita. His children do their schoolwork without complaint, regularly getting high marks on their tests and making their parents proud.

Normally Cameron can control his temper while in his classroom, but there are certain people who make him want to let go and see what blows up this time. Case in point, Drew Hammond; he’s a beefy ex-military man with his blond hair high and tight and veins that strain out against his throat when he’s yelling. In fact, he’s yelling right now.

Cameron wonders what would happen if he struck Drew Hammond over the head with his _World’s Greatest Teacher_ coffee mug.

“—my boy is one of the brightest ones in this school district,” Drew is saying, spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth. It’s a pinched little thing, a pale pink that stands out against the beet red of his face. “You’re just failing him because you don’t like him!” Little Damian Hammond is not failing at all, he’s had a steady B-average all year.

Cameron bets the mug wouldn’t even break, but Drew’s cheek definitely would if there was enough force behind the blow.

“—and while we’re on the subject, I’ll bet you only favor the little girls….” His hold on his temper begins to slacken, nails digging into the wooden arms of his chair. It would be so easy to bring this man down, to make him cry and beg. “Yeah, that’s it, ain’t it?”

“Need I remind you that I only have two girls in this classroom at the time,” Cameron asks. He looks completely at ease in his pressed button-down and slacks, the antithesis to the storm raging in his mind. “Damian came in late in the year, it’s expected for him to be a little behind.”

“He was only two months late!”

“And his old school was teaching him second-grade work.” Cameron sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, closing his eyes to picture the dazed who-what-how expression this Sergeant First Class would wear when Cameron clocked him with the mug a second time. “If it will put your mind at ease, I know a wonderful tutor that can help him after school.”

“Who is it?”

“Alec Barton, he’s a senior that needs to get volunteer hours in order to impress Stanford.” Drew seems to relax a bit after that, the broad line of his shoulders no longer so straight. “He tutors other kids in the library on Wednesday afternoons right after school lets out.”

“Does he have a number?”

“He does.” Cameron jots down the number for the Barton family landline, sliding the paper across his desk for Drew to take. The Sergeant takes it with a grateful nod and rises from his chair, shaking Cameron’s hand and walking out without another word. On the desk, Cameron’s mug remains intact and full of coffee that’s gone cold.

He heaves a sigh and stands up, pulling on a heavy coat and scarf before heading out into the bitter February wind. There are icy patches on the sidewalk that Cameron navigates with the careless grace of a man that’s dealt with Kansas winters all his life. He makes it to his house in just under fifteen minutes, barely registering that his front door isn’t locked.

Actually, he doesn’t notice much of anything until he’s standing in his living room and staring down at a six year old that’s so heavily bundled her arms are stuck out away from her sides. She looks up at him, face half-hidden behind a bright red scarf.

“Do I know you?” It’s a ridiculous question, he knows this the instant it leaves his mouth. How did she even get inside his house? Can kids this young pick locks now? If they can, then what’s next? Eight year olds kicking puppies and ten year olds forming a gang to rob the elderly of their pensions?

“Daddy brought me,” the kid says, voice muffled by the wool. “He’s making cocoa.” And now that she mentions it, Cameron can smell milk being heated on the stove. He takes a couple of steps to the right, peering around the corner and into his kitchen. There is indeed a man standing in front of the stove, his black hair slicked off his face with pomade and his white shirt perfectly ironed.

“Care to explain why the hell you broke into my house?” The man turns, one thick brow raised in an expression of the severely unimpressed. It takes Cameron a moment, but then he remembers who this man is and how he got inside. Cameron had given him a key three years ago right before a rash of murders swept through the county, women found mutilated in empty fields or on the sides of the road. “Kidnapping children now, Oliver?”

“Saving them,” Oliver says. “Well, just the one.” The little girl waddles her way into the kitchen, barely able to move beneath all those layers. He almost feels bad for the kid. “I’m not adept at childcare, as you well know, and I thought I’d make you a proposition.” Cameron hums out a response, plucking the hat off the child’s head.

“And what’s that?”

“Help me with her.” The scarf and jacket come off next, followed by two sweaters, and then he can finally see the little girl clearly. Her cheeks are flushed a dark pink and her blonde hair sticks to her face in places.

“What’s in it for me?” He can’t take his eyes off the little girl, not when she makes the cutest little faces as she pushes the hair off her face with irritated movements.

“You get to see more of the United States.” Cameron does look up at that, scowling. Oliver rolls his eyes, going quiet for a moment as he pours the milk into three glasses and stirs in some chocolate syrup. “And you can treat Camille as your own.” Cameron wishes that didn’t affect him so much, but his gaze flicks back to the little girl with a pang of wanting. He wants a baby again.

“What’s the catch, Oliver?”

“No catch.” He turns with two glasses in hand, giving one to Camille and the other to Cameron. “Just an opportunity too good to pass up.” He grins, baring white teeth as he picks up his own glass. It’s a cold thing, a dead-eyed shark’s grin. Cameron matches it with one of his own.

**1964**

Oliver finds himself surprised to wake up one morning and realize his baby girl is seventeen. It doesn’t seem possible to him and he finds himself wondering when the little girl that struggled with her S’s had grown into a young woman that wants to be a teacher. She’ll be leaving for some small college in just a year’s time, then she’ll probably find a nice school to teach at and a husband that treats her right.

How long will it be before she forgets Oliver entirely? Before she pushes him out of her mind just as she’s done the mother she used to cry for every night?

“Daddy?” The voice is soft, followed by the tap-tap-tap of a knuckle on his bedroom door. “Breakfast is nearly ready.”

“I’ll be out in a few minutes,” he calls, staring up at the ceiling above his bed. It’s a nice place they’ve found, not too expensive while still maintaining three bedrooms and a large basement. If there’s one thing he can always rely on his protégé for it’s the man’s knowledge of the real estate market.

He lies in bed a few minutes longer until the smell of bacon wafting towards him makes his stomach growl, and then he forces himself to get ready for the day. His new job is taking him to an asylum to decide if a looney is capable of standing trial or not, an unpleasant task if he’s being honest. He isn’t a fan of taking lives if he can help it, not unless he’s feeling the warm pulse of blood on his hands.

Oliver shakes his head, coming out of his room once he’s presentable and heading straight for the kitchen. It isn’t overly large like the one in Brooklyn had been, but it’s enough for the three inhabitants currently milling around in it.

Cameron offers up a smile and a cup of coffee, one of those morning people that you never think exist in real life until they’re flouncing around like six-thirty isn’t a God-awful time to be conscious. It’s unholy.

“Uncle Cam made waffles this morning,” Camille tells him, holding out a plate for Oliver to see. They obviously don’t belong to him, the small stack is decked out in whipped cream and strawberries to form a happy face, syrup and butter somehow not marring the ridiculous display. “Didn’t he do a great job?”

“Anything for the birthday girl,” Cameron says with his dimpled grin. _Completely unnatural_ , Oliver decides. _He_ _must have sold his soul in some back alley for the ability to function in the morning and his coffee brewing skills_. “Go and sit down, Angel. I’ll get Oliver’s lunch ready this morning.”

“Make a second to go with it,” he decides suddenly. Cameron arches one finely plucked brow and Oliver takes a long pull of coffee before explaining. “I’m taking Cami with me for the duration of this job. She’ll need the experience if she wants to teach thirty children under the age of six.” And really, who deliberately chooses a profession where their ankles can be bitten at any time?

“You’re taking a seventeen year old girl to a mental institution filled with all kinds of sex-deprived maniacs? Yeah, very responsible.” Oliver’s grip on his cup tightens just the slightest amount, stamping down on the urge to slam the warm porcelain against Cameron’s temple until the man has no breaths left in him.

“Don’t forget who she belongs to.” He keeps his voice steady, free hand coming down to rest on top of Camille’s head. She stiffens, fork poised over her plate as though to move means to be eaten alive. Cameron is just as still as the teenager, a tic in his jaw the only physical tell of the temper he’s trying to reign in. “She’s coming with me and I’ll hear nothing else about it.”

“Fine,” he bites out, slamming the spatula down in the sink. “But if something happens to her while she’s there, then _you_ can explain your brilliant plan to the emergency room.” Camille’s still tense under his hand, letting out a slow breath when Cameron sits next to her and Oliver moves over to the stove.

When Oliver turns again, she’s nibbling at a strawberry speared on her fork, eyes carefully downcast. She’s a smart girl, able to read the tension in the room and take heed. Better to make herself small than risk being the next target. Oliver grabs his plate and sits on her right, the trio eating in silence until Cameron gets up to put the plates away.

He fixes a second lunch without a word, but that tic is still going, and Oliver has to bite back a smile. He does so love to see Cameron uncomfortable.

The drive to Briarcliff takes close to twenty minutes, Camille sitting quietly in the passenger’s seat the entire time. She’s never been one to chatter mindlessly since she turned eight, more comfortable just listening to the radio or her records. Never any TV, though, it rots the brain.

Oliver parks in the employee lot and cuts the ignition before turning to look at his daughter. She keeps her eyes focused on her hands, the faux gold and onyx ring flashing where it sits on one slim finger. Cameron had bought it last month to go specifically with the dress she has on, treating her like his personal baby doll. Oliver doesn’t mind, he likes his daughter in the best things.

“I expect you to be on your best behavior when we go in. I also want you to stay close to me because some of the people in here may try to take advantage of you.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmurs, dipping her head in a nod. Oliver gives a curt nod of his own before he gets out of his car, grabbing his case before shutting his door. Camille is quick to follow suit, keeping her head slightly lowered as they begin to walk over the expansive grounds. “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you really want me here?” They stop just short of the front doors as Oliver turns to look at her. She’s got her gray eyes locked on his face, her pupils slightly dilated as she searches for any hint of a lie.

“Because Cameron needs to remember his place.”

“You’re going to leave him once I graduate, aren’t you? You want him to get used to being alone so that he doesn’t pitch a fit when you leave him.” She doesn’t seem to miss anything these days. Oliver might have admired the quality in anyone else but he doesn’t need his daughter snooping around in his personal affairs.

“Are you going to tell Cameron any of this?”

“Of course not.” She gives him a sly grin, just a hint of white teeth visible and eyes glittering. “Doctor-patient confidentiality forbids such a thing.” He can’t help his laugh, barely more than a huff of air as he pats her cheek. The baby fat is gone, replaced by soft angles. He wonders once more when his little girl had grown up.

“We’d better get moving. Don’t want our new patient to think we’ve gotten lost.” The doors open up to a wide entryway with large rooms branching off the sides and a massive wood and iron staircase just ten feet in front of them. It winds in gentle loops up to the second level, the metal gleaming under the harsh fluorescents. 

“Oh, that smell is awful.” Camille has her hand covering her mouth as she looks around, brows twitching downward when she spots a man thumping his head against one of the walls. There’s blood dried around his cheeks and mouth, joined by fresher gushes as he keeps going without pause. No one stops him either. “How has the state not shut this place down?”

“The state doesn’t care about places like this, dear. It’s just somewhere for unwanted relatives to be dropped off and forgotten.” She’s right though, the smell is one of the worst ones Oliver has encountered in the past few years; it’s a mix of old feces and unwashed bodies.

“You the shrink,” a uniformed man asks, coming to a stop in front of the pair. He’s around Oliver’s age, maybe a few years older, with a stern twist to his mouth and hard eyes. At Oliver’s nod, the man continues to talk. “I’m Frank McCann, one of the guards here at Briarcliff. I’ll be showin’ you to your office.”

“Thank you, Mister McCann.”

“Please, just call me Frank.” Blue eyes move over to Camille and they soften just a bit. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“She’s my daughter. She’ll be assisting me while I’m here.”

“You’re a braver man than I am, Doc.” He gestures for them to follow him up the stairs, leading them through the maze of hallways. Most of the doors are reinforced iron, meant for the patients, but a few of them are heavy wood. Oliver pauses in front of one door, glancing through the small window set into it at a woman strapped down to a gurney. “Doc?”

“What is she being treated for?” Frank comes back to him and peeks through, letting out a muttered curse.

“She’s a lesbian. Her partner signed all the paperwork for her to be admitted and treated.” The woman’s fingers are curled into her palms, screams muffled by a mouthguard but Oliver can still make out her pleas for help.

“Electroshock therapy is barbaric.”

“That’s not up to me.” Frank shrugs like it means nothing to him, but Oliver’s fighting not to grind his teeth. The woman spasms with the electric current running through her, brown eyes finding Oliver’s gaze before rolling up into her skull as she collapses back to the gurney. He wants to go in there and stop the treatment, be a knight in shining armor, but that will have to wait.

He’s got all the time in the world to tend to pretty young women.

“Daddy are you ready to keep going,” Camille asks, one hand coming to rest on his arm. The way she looks at him makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, like she’s seeing straight into his head where he keeps all his darkness locked away. Sometimes he thinks she knows everything, about the women and his mask, but that’s ridiculous. Camille only knows what Oliver lets her know, which isn’t very much.

“Yes, of course.” He sends Frank an apologetic smile and they continue on their way. Camille’s arm falls back to her side but she’s still studying him, eyes flicking back and forth over his face during her brief glances away from the hall. It’s several turns later that Frank comes to a stop, the door he opens revealing a disused room that’s been hastily cleared.

“This’ll be your office for your stay here. Let me know if you two need anything.” He nods at Oliver and even tips his hat to Camille before walking back the way they’d come, the heels of his polished shoes clicking as he goes.

“This place is filthy.”

“They probably used it for storage,” Camille says, looking around. There’s no clutter left behind, but there are brown leaves that have drifted in through an opened window and the desk and shelves are covered in dust. He’ll be lucky to make it home without sneezing himself into a coma. “I’ll get it cleaned up while you go meet with your patient.”

“Will you be alright by yourself?”

“I won’t leave the room except for cleaning supplies. I’m sure I can find someone to direct me around.” She’s giving him a smile that’s totally innocent, but he’s still not sure of her. Sometimes he itches to put a chain around her ankle just to keep her from wandering away, but days like this make him glad she’ll be going to college in just a year.

“Alright, well…. No talking to anyone that isn’t a nun or in a uniform.”

“Yes, sir.” Her smile widens a little and she giggles, suddenly transforming back into his little girl. He pats her cheek once before walking out, heading for the room just to the left of the entrance. There’s an empty table towards the back of the room that he claims, pulling out a folder of information on Kit Walker and a notepad to take notes during their session.

The question isn’t deciding if Walker is guilty or not, it’s if he should remain in Briarcliff or fry.


	3. Fearless

**1951**

Camille is crying in her room when Oliver wakes up in the early hours of the day, a glance at his alarm clock letting him know it’s barely ten after two and little girls should most definitely be sound asleep by now. He should have known that all girls are trouble from the very beginning, screaming, whining things not worth his time.

But no, he’s worked for the better part of a year and Camille will be perfect when he’s through. She just needs more time to adjust to life with him.

He gets up and shrugs on a robe before shuffling across the hall to his daughter’s room, finding her bundled up under her covers as though she’s hiding from a monster. And who knows? Maybe she is. Maybe she knows that he’s not right. She looks up at him sometimes like he’s a specimen rather than a human being, something more than simple curiosity.

“Cami?” There’s a sound of a cut-off sob and then the blanket is moving, a little face popping up into view. There’s no curiosity there now, just cry-swollen eyes and wet cheeks. “Are you okay?”

“Had a bad dream,” she says, voice shaky. He moves slowly so she won’t startle, sitting on the edge of her bed and putting his hand approximately where her foot should be.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She’s quiet for a moment, lips pursed as she thinks that over. Slowly, just like Oliver had moved a second ago, she pushes her covers off and settles against his side, pulling his arm around her shoulders. They stay like that for a while, Camille’s breathing slowing down to a normal rhythm. He’s almost certain that she’s asleep again when she starts to talk.

“Dad was mad at me.” Her voice is barely more than a quiet whisper of air, cold against the bare skin of his side. “The one I had before you. He got so mad and he grabbed my arm and wouldn’t let go.”

“Is that why your mother left him?”

“He died.” Oliver glances down to gage her expression, taking in the glazed eyes and the way her thumb is hovering just in front of her mouth. She doesn’t suck on it anymore, but she tends to let it drift along her bottom lip when she gets upset. “Ma said it was the best thing he ever did.”

“Do you miss him?”

“No.” She turns that glazed look up at him and he has to fight to stay in place, not flinch away from her. She’s a child for God’s sake, she’s only _four_ , he shouldn’t be scared of her. But still, there’s a part of him that regrets taking this girl last winter. “You won’t break my arm, will you?”

“Of course not.” She nods and the solemn expression slides off her face, replaced with the usual wide eyes and soft smile. “Why don’t you lay back down and I’ll tuck you in?” She nods, flopping sideways with a giggle and letting him pull the covers up under her chin. He pats her cheek once, reassuring himself that she’s really there and isn’t some ghoul sent to torment him.

“Sweet dreams, Daddy.”

“Sweet dreams, baby.” He watches her for a long time after that, one hand on her cheek and the other one his knee as he hums _Earth Angel_. She doesn’t have anymore nightmares after that, mouth opened with that thumb pressed against her lip. Oliver thinks he might have to kill her when she’s older, might have to pluck those pretty eyes out of her head to stop her staring at him. But that will be years from now if it happens at all.

He goes back to his room, but he doesn’t sleep.

**1964**

Camille looks around the little office, cramped even if it only contains a desk and two chairs. It’s just a small space and the wall color is too dark, the window facing away from the sunset. It’s a miserable little room and she’ll be glad to leave it behind by this afternoon.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” Camille turns to find a man standing in the hall, wisps of dark blond hair escaping from under his hat. He’s got a confused smile turning his lips upwards and a pair of blue eyes Camille aches to capture using her watercolors.

“Um, maybe,” she says, realizing she’s been staring too long. She moves forward with a slow grace that’s been beaten into her, stopping just inside the doorway. “I need some cleaning supplies if you can get me any.”

“Are you new here?”

“I suppose you can say that. My father is a court-appointed psychiatrist and he’s decided that I’ll be helping on the weekends.” She’s never missed a day of school since Oliver became her father, not even when she was sick. Education is important, he’d explained as he’d bundled her up in her heaviest coat.

“Oh right, he’s here for Bloody Face.” Camille nods, meeting the man’s gaze again. He’s fairly young, maybe in his late teens if she has to guess, boasting a sculpted jaw and pale freckles that are scattered over his cheeks like a dusting of snow. Cameron refers to them as angel kisses and Camille has to bite her tongue to keep from repeating that.

“So…. Cleaning supplies?” That seems to startle him back out of his own head, and he nods with a sheepish laugh.

“Yeah, yes, right this way.” They walk down a hall that dead-ends to the left of Oliver’s office, the man pulling out a key chain as he goes. It’s loaded down with the things, all of them jingling like bells as he sorts through them. “I’m Gage, by the way. Gage Kincaid.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Kincaid.” He makes a face at that and shakes his head a little.

“Just Gage, please. My dad holds the title of Mister in our family.” Her brows furrow slightly, making him laugh. “He’s a high school teacher, so all my friends have referred to him as _Mister Kincaid_ since they were little. Every time someone calls me that I look around trying to find Pops.”

“My uncle Cameron is a teacher, too. He teaches third grade.”

“Maybe they know each other.”

“I doubt it. We just moved here this year.” Gage nods at that, finding the right key and unlocking the last room on the right. This storage room is nearly identical to the one she just left, cluttered with cleaning supplies and a sink set low to the ground for filling the mop bucket. “I graduate this year and I’m hoping to go to college next year.”

“Oh yeah? What do you wanna be when you grow up? Because I’m still trying to figure it out.” She can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of her, shockingly loud to her ears. “C’mon, us kids gotta stick together.” He’s smiling too, eyes lit up and standing out against his smooth tan.

“A teacher like my uncle. What about you?”

“Well, right now I’m just trying to pay rent.” He gestures at his uniform as if it’s a burden he can’t wait to be rid of. “I actually wanna have my own bakery. I make the best cherry cobbler in all of Boston.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” She moves over to a set of shelves, piling a few rags in a bucket while Gage moves around behind her. There’s a sound of protesting metal and then water’s gushing into another bucket, Gage pouring in some soap to make it bubble and foam. “Have you lived in Boston your whole life?”

“Yep, born and raised here. How about you?”

“I’m not sure.” He turns to look at her after he shuts the water off, confused. “I was adopted,” she clarifies and his confusion dims. “My mom wasn’t really fit for raising a kid, so Oliver swooped in like my knight in shining armor. Him and Uncle Cameron have been my guardians since I was three.”

“It’s nice that they took you in. Not a lot of people would do that.” Camille thinks of the sting of leather connecting with her back, of dark eyes with secrets floating behind them like a bunch of balloons, and she wonders if kindness is why they took her at all. Sometimes she wonders if she’s not just some plaything for them, a porcelain doll to be dressed and maneuvered to their liking.

“Yes, they’re good people,” she says instead of voicing her thoughts. She’ll be eighteen soon enough and she won’t have to keep constant contact with the men after that. She can be her own person, she can wear _pants_. God, she really wants to wear pants instead of tailored dresses. “I can get all this back to the office if you’re supposed to be doing something else.”

“Nonsense. I was raised to help people.” His grin shows off white teeth and sharp canines, something about it making her relax rather than tense. “You ready to head back?” Camille nods, unable to do much else as she takes her little bucket of cleaning supplies and a broom with her out into the hall. Gage locks the door, then they’re walking back towards the dismal office that she’ll soon grow to hate. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

“I guess so.” He sets the bucket down near the desk and runs a hand over the back of his neck, smiling again.

“I never did catch your name.”

“I’m Camille Thredson.” She sets her own supplies down so that she can shake his hand, liking his firm grip and dry palms. This close she can see that his hair is a light brown instead of blond, curling up where it’s poking out from under the hat. “And thank you for the help.”

“Not a problem, Miss Thredson.” Gage leaves after that, shooting her one more smile over his shoulder before he’s gone. Camille takes a moment to smile, brushing some of her hair over her shoulder before shaking the infatuation off and getting to work. Just like with pants, she can’t have a boyfriend until she’s well and truly away from her father and Uncle Cameron.

“One more year,” she mutters to herself. “One more year until you can wear pants and have someone take you out on a real date.” She doesn’t even care if that person is of the male persuasion at this point as long as she gets a decent meal out of it, maybe an orgasm. She’s pretty easy to please at this point.

Camille works on the office for an hour and a half before her father shows back up, the shelves and desk sparkling, the floors swept and mopped. The only thing left to do is figure out how to make the damn window close without breaking the glass. She’s doing her best to put some real weight behind her shoving when one strong hand appears over her shoulder to do the job in two seconds flat.

“Thank you,” she grumbles, turning to look at her father. He’s wearing a smug expression that promptly disappears when she tosses a dusty rag at his face. He catches it of course, scowling as he throws it into the bucket with the other rags.

“This actually looks like an office now,” he says. “Well done, Cami.” She shrugs, using a clean cloth to wipe the dirt off her hands. Part of her wants to wipe them on her dress just to see the rage boiling in Cameron’s eyes when she returns home, but she knows better. He’s too free with his belt these days and she rather likes being able to lay on her back at night.

“Did you get anything useful from your patient?”

“Nothing much yet, but we’ve just begun our sessions. How good are you with a typewriter?”

“Uh, fine. It’s not exactly a difficult thing to grasp.” Oliver snorts and offers up a smirk, patting her cheek. He gestures for her to sit behind the desk as he pulls out a folder from his case. She does so, back straight and fingers poised over the keys. “I’m ready, Daddy.” Oliver puts a cigarette in his mouth and strikes a match, the filter glowing orange whenever he puffs at it.

“Patient is twenty-four years old,” he starts, smoke streaming out with every word. “Completed grades K through twelve, no higher education. Patient is believed responsible for the murders of multiple women, including his wife. The victims’ bodies were discovered in a remote field, drained of blood, decapitated. The murders may have started as a purging of racial guilt at what his conditioning would have viewed as an illicit coupling. Patient is manipulative. Diagnosis: Acute clinical insanity.”

“So you think he did it?” She doesn’t mean it to come out as a question, not really. She can see shadows playing behind her father’s eyes as he glances sharply at her and she thinks of balloons in old movies, black and white things caught on a breeze. _One day all your secrets will fly away for everyone to see_.

“Yes.” She lets her forefinger tap once against the J key, the rhythm of an old lullaby that’s gone fuzzy at the edges, faded. She thinks she remembers a woman singing to her, but that might be her imagination. “Are you alright, sweetheart?” She comes back to earth just in time to catch the suspicious look that flashes over his face. _Clutch your balloons tightly, Oliver, the wind is getting stronger_.

“I’m just fine, Daddy.”

Camille Thredson isn’t some stupid little girl that can’t handle the darker side of things, but that doesn’t mean she likes spending her day in an asylum for the mentally ill. Half of the residents are left to their own devices and well over half of them are doped to the gills, barely functioning as they stumble through the halls. There are a smattering of guards and a few more orderlies, but none of them seem to even register that they’re in charge of actual human beings.

In short, Camille wants to drag her local congressman here by his ear and show him why places like this do more harm than good. Maybe give him a kick in the pants to really motivate him into action.

Oliver is just as upset after seeing some nun using a cane on another woman’s bare ass, twenty lashes that left welts and flaming red skin. Which is why they’re currently hunting down the nun in charge of Briarcliff, stopping occasionally to ask an employee for directions.

They eventually catch her as she strides across one of the open areas for the staircase, straight-backed and confidently ignoring the woman drooling over a checkers set.

“Sister Jude,” Oliver calls. The nun doesn’t stop so much as slow down, casting a glance over her shoulder at the pair. “I’m Doctor Oliver Thredson and this is my daughter, Camille.”

“Right,” Jude nods. “The court-appointed psychiatrist. I do hope you didn’t let your little girl near our killer of women.”

“Of course not.” Jude nods once, a sharp movement that makes Camille want to throttle her. If she’s so efficient that she can’t even manage to stop for a conversation about her patients, then she doesn’t need to be in charge of them.

“Will he be going over to Old Sparky or will he be remaining here?”

“One session is hardly enough time to make that decision.” He’s almost to the point of shouting now, a crease deepening between his brows as they continue their forward march. Camille struggles a little to keep up with them, her flats not keeping any traction on the polished floor. “I was hoping we could have a private discussion about the conditions here.”

“What about the conditions?”

“We could start with the fact that no one around here seems clean aside from the employees and the few patients that are in their right mind,” Camille snaps.

“And I’m sure I could find a segue into the caning and electroshock therapy,” Oliver continues, just as angry as Camille. Sometimes, in moments like this, she feels as if she really could be his biological daughter instead of a stray he found in the park. The thought has her anger fading somewhat, cautious eyes going to her father’s face before dropping back to the nun.

“What did you expect to find here, Doctor Thredson,” Jude asks, stopping and turning to face them. She’s on the steps now, earning the high ground so that she can glare at Oliver. “This is a madhouse, not a luxury resort.”

“I expected to see these people getting _treatment_. They’re not even getting any attention paid to them unless it’s negative. You can’t expect them to get any better if you don’t—”

“I don’t expect them to get better, I expect them to behave.” She lets out a sigh, looking out on the patients wandering around the first floor. “There’s no hope for most of these people and the others don’t care about getting better.” There’s a faint light of disappointment behind Jude’s eyes, a pale blue thing fluttering as though caught in a high wind.

“But—”

“Why don’t you just do us both a favor and complete the task you were set with by the courts. Figure out if Kit Walker is insane, write up your report, and get the hell out of here.” She looks like she wants to say more, but then a door on the second floor is opening and another nun is bringing a couple out. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got my own job to tend to.”

Oliver and Camille watch her leave in silence, Jude leading the couple into her office with a modest dip of her head and a few soft-spoken words. Camille’s eyes ache as she imagines that speck of blue again, a color never seen in the Thredson household behind dark irises.

“What did you see that made you quiet,” Oliver asks, glancing down at her with something that isn’t quite curiosity. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he’s wary.

“Desperation,” she answers succinctly. “Sister Jude isn’t a fan of these conditions, but she feels as though there’s nothing she can do to fix it so she may as well focus on keeping the train on the track instead.” Oliver nods and looks back to the closed office door.

“Let’s go see if that family would like a doctor’s consultation.”

“Jude isn’t going to like that.”

“Do you care what she likes?” Camille shrugs and that’s answer enough, the pair going up the stairs and down the hall. The door of Jude’s office is made of sturdy wood with a frosted glass window set into it, nearly as tall as Camille. Oliver opens it without pausing to consider if it was locked, barging into the office like it belongs to him.

“I’m terribly sorry if I’m interrupting,” he lies. “We haven’t finished our conversation, Sister Jude.” It takes every inch of Camille’s willpower to keep her smile at bay, biting her cheek and staring down at her shoes. Oliver moves from the door and over to the desk, turning so that he’s standing between Jude and the couple. “I’m Doctor Thredson, the psychiatrist here.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” the woman says, standing to shake his hand before seating herself again. Camille goes to her father’s side, inspecting the couple a little too intently. The colors behind their eyes are drab and gray, flashes of anxiety lending a watery yellow color.

“This is Camille, she’s my assistant.” Camille shakes the woman’s hand as well, though her husband doesn’t offer up a hand or much realization to the world at large. He’s lost in his thoughts, bad memories colored a faded red.

“Hello.”

“Doctor, this is a private meeting and you need to see yourself out,” Jude says, standing with her hands pressed against her desk. She wants to hit Oliver, wants to feel her knuckles crack against his nose and see blood dot the crisp white shirt.

“Actually I’d like a doctor’s opinion of my boy.” Oliver is downright smug when his dark eyes meet Jude’s, clasping his hands in front of him as he sits on the edge of her desk. When he looks back to the couple, the smugness has been replaced with curiosity.

“How can I help,” he asks. If she didn’t know any better, Camille would say the concern is genuine instead of a mask. The woman lets out a sigh, slouching a little in her chair.

“Jed just turned seventeen and he’s changed over this past month. He’s listless and moody and sometimes we can’t even get him out of bed for days on end. Sometimes he can’t stop moving, he _writhes_ and he screams and he…. He’s just not acting like our boy.”

“Adolescence can be a time of conflict and rebellion. My own daughter is a very subdued girl but there are moments where she seems intent on bringing the house down around her ears.” Camille’s wince goes unnoticed by the adults. “Sometimes it’s best to let them work out the emotions they’re feeling.”

“No it’s not like that, Doctor. He hears things, voices telling him to do awful stuff.”

“He’s gonna hurt us if we don’t do something,” the man says, finally tuning into the conversation. His eyes are swollen and red-rimmed from crying, hands fidgeting in his lap as though he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“Tell them what happened yesterday.”

“We heard these terrible cries coming from the barn and I went to go see what was happening. Instead of some asshole kids messing around I found _my kid_ covered in blood, speaking in tongues, and kneeling in front of the Guernsey he’d just finished disemboweling. He ate her heart. It was unholy and he can’t remember doing it.”

“It’s like there’s something trying to take him over. During these… These fits, his eye color changed from blue to yellow. That’s how we know when we’re dealing with our Jed or not.” Oliver is stunned into silence, looking over at Camille and letting out a slow breath when she nods. They aren’t lying.

“What, no diagnoses,” Sister Jude asks after a moment. “Why, you were so adamant to have a conversation just five minutes ago.”

“I-I’d like to see him,” Oliver says, unsteady. “Perhaps I could refer him to someone if I know more about his illness.”

“We brought him with us,” the woman says, perking up. Jude stands and walks to the door, holding it open for everyone to leave. She steps in front of Oliver right after the others have passed, raising a hand to make him stop.

“Doctor Thredson, you are a guest in this institution,” she says, a tone of warning. “Don’t wear out your welcome so soon.” She turns and strides out of the office, leaving Oliver and Camille in her dust as the couple leads her to their son. Oliver is speechless again, staring after the nun with some surprise.

Camille wants to be that fearless when she’s all grown up.


	4. Something Wicked

**1954**

Camille is seven years old the first time Cameron loses his temper. She’s just spilled a glass of juice on the pristine white rug, a complete accident, but she doesn’t even get an apology out before there’s a hand in her hair and another under her chin to force her head up.

“Didn’t I tell you to be careful,” he asks, almost snarling down at her. She can feel drops of spittle hitting her cheeks, can almost feel Cameron’s fingerprints etching their way into her jaw. She wants to cry, wants to apologize, but the words are stuck to the roof of her mouth like peanut butter and she can’t get them out.

“I’m—” Camille’s hauled out of the living room by her hair, struggling to match Cameron’s pace as they head towards her bedroom. His motions flow into one another like the water in a fountain, one moment she’s on her feet and the next she’s lying on her bed.

“Little girls are supposed to be graceful, Cami. You’ll learn this one day. Until then I’ll be here to make you take your medicine.”

She’s got her mouth open, but she’s not sure if she wants to apologize or ask what he means, and she doesn’t get a chance to make up her mind. There’s a sound of leather snapping, the whistle of air parting, and then a sharp sting sizzling through her nerve endings. Lightning sharp pain rushes across her back in waves, her hands digging into the comforter the same way her teeth dig into her lip to keep the screams at bay.

Camille gets seven lashes with the belt; she’ll count the welts later when Cameron’s in bed and Oliver’s locked away in the basement. She’ll count each one and she’ll think of ways to make him hurt in return. Maybe she’ll hurt Oliver while she’s at it.

**1964**

Jed Potter is a slight boy with a yellowed pallor and desperation behind his gaze. Someone has dressed him in a gown and he’s twisted himself like a pretzel on the bed, muscles spasming wildly to try and keep his bones from snapping under the pressure. There’s sweat on his brow and Camille itches to soothe him.

“Mommy,” he croaks in a disused voice. “I can’t see anything.” His eyes are slits, a bare hint of blue iris visible. “Where are you? Are you here?”

“I’m here, sweetie,” Mrs. Potter says, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. She sits beside him on the bed, running a hand along one of his arms and letting out a strangled sound when the muscles jump. “There’s a doctor here to help you.” Jed makes a sound as if he’s choking, a gurgling that draws Oliver close.

“Jed,” Oliver asks, bringing out his penlight. Jed surges forward with an animalistic growl, driving Oliver backwards without ever touching him. The desperation is gone, replaced by a cold malice and yellow eyes. “He needs to be immediately medicated.” Jude shakes her head as the boy starts speaking in tongues, pressing a fist over her heart as if to steady herself. There’s fear in her eyes, a subtle, encroaching darkness that makes Camille want to shrink away.

“No, Doctor,” she says. “This boy needs something else.”

It’s fully dark out when a car parks in front of the asylum, the driver going straight for the trunk and pulling out a wheelchair. It’s only when he steps in front of the lights streaming through the windows of the doors that she’s able to spot brown hair and the familiar curve of his jaw.

“Gage is back,” she calls over her shoulder. Oliver is busy trying to convince the Potters to take their son elsewhere, but a priest gives Camille a nod to show he’s heard. Camille opens the door as Gage approaches, following behind the portly man wheeling himself inside. “Hi.”

“Camille,” Gage greets, dipping his head in a polite nod. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”

“My father is very stubborn. He’s determined to get Jed some real help.”

“Real help,” asks the man in the wheelchair. He’s got a kind, round face, his hair thick on the sides and back while completely gone from the top. He’s a good man, Camille knows, and the thing inside Jed Potter will eat him alive. _Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'entrate._

“My father doesn’t believe in demons, Father.” He glances at the three adults huddled together at the far end of the room, nodding towards them. “Yes, that’s him.” The man nods with a calming smile sent her way. She wishes she could take faith in that smile, but something bad is going to happen tonight. The priest wheels himself across to the others, speaking in a cheerful voice.

“Your daughter tells me you’re an unbeliever.” Oliver turns away from the other priest and Jude, glancing down to see who’s addressing him. Jude had whispered the name Malechi over the phone an hour or so ago and the name suits him. “That’s a perfect way to up my game.”

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,” Gage murmurs, stepping up beside Camille. “You feel it too, don’t you? Something building up.”

“Why else would this place be so quiet,” Camille says. “I don’t think Father Malechi will last through this.”

“Neither do I.” She turns to look up at him, taking in the dash of freckles over his nose and cheeks, following them to the soft curve of his lips and then back up to his eyes. He means what he says, not just mocking her like Cameron sometimes does. She doubts there’s a cruel bone in Gage’s body.

“Kincaid,” Frank calls, poking his head around a corner. “Need your help here, kid. We’re puttin’ everyone to bed early tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” Frank nods, sparing Gage a warning glance before disappearing back into the day room. “Guess I better get moving before he drags me away. Certainly wouldn’t be the first time since I was a kid.”

“Are you related to Frank,” Camille asks, arching her brows. The pair don’t share many common features, the shade of their eyes are even different; Gage’s eyes are a soft color while Frank’s are harder.

“Nah, he and my uncle were cops together. He’s protective of me.” Gage shrugs with an easy smile, patting her once on the back before leaving. She watches until he disappears around a corner, letting out a soft breath.

“Camille,” Oliver calls, waving her over. The priests and Jude have left the room already, but Oliver and the Potters remain. “Do you remember where my office is?” She nods, knowing that he doesn’t expect anything verbal quite yet. “I want you to stay in there until this is over, alright? Call Cameron and tell him we won’t be home until late.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, watching as he strides off. She looks over her shoulder at the couple still sitting on a bench, the shell-shocked expressions making her heart ache for them. She’ll be no use at comfort though, she’s not even good at comforting herself. Instead of saying anything, she goes upstairs to the office and straight to the phone.

“Thredson residence,” Cameron greets. He sounds pleasant, but it’s nearing six o’clock and she knows he must be growing impatient since their family dinners takes place at exactly five-thirty. “This is Cameron speaking.”

“Dad said to call and tell you that it’ll be late before we get out of here.” There’s no point in beating around the bush, she’s found that the punishment is less severe when she’s straightforward and honest. “A boy here is in need of help.”

“What kind of help could Oliver be? He’s a goddamn _shrink_.” There’s the impatience, a note of warning that doesn’t hand out second chances lightly.

“The boy is….”

“Is what?”

“He’s having an exorcism performed on him. Dad’s staying here for it.” There’s a sharp sigh that crackles through the speaker and she can picture his expression clearly; brows furrowed, free hand clenched into a tight fight, teeth grinding so hard you can hear them if you stand close enough. “Dad’s still trying to talk everyone into taking the boy to a hospital.”

“And why do you have to be there for it?”

“I can’t leave unless Dad does. I don’t know how to drive yet.” That had been Cameron’s decision, stating that the roads are too dangerous for young women by themselves. When she graduates, she plans on getting her license just to spite him.

“And I can’t come get you because Oliver didn’t tell me where Briarcliff is located.” There’s another sound, this one belonging to a cup that’s been slammed down on the passthrough the phone is set on. She’s not even there, but she still flinches back from the noise and waits for a blow. “Tell Oliver to feed you on the way home. I’m throwing this mess in the garbage and going out for the night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect you to be dressed by six-thirty in the morning. It’ll be your job to make breakfast.”

“Yes, sir.” The call disconnects without a single goodbye exchanged, Camille settling the phone back in its cradle. She’ll probably be punished when Cameron gets home but there’s no use in thinking about it now.

She manages to last an entire hour or so in the cramped office before she starts to go a little stir crazy. The only time she spends stuck in her room at home is at night and even then, her door is left cracked so she can hear the radio playing in Oliver’s room.

She knows it isn’t smart to go wandering, but she can’t help it as she slips out of the room and starts down the hall. Camille’s not sure where she’s going until she stops in front of one of the doors with wire-enforced glass, staring past that at sister Jude. The woman’s eyes have slipped closed and her lips are moving quickly as though in prayer. Camille raps her knuckle against the glass, opening the door once Jude takes a couple of quick steps backward.

“Is everything okay,” Camille asks, looking around. Aside from Jed, Jude is the only person in the room.

“No, Malechi is dying. He’s been taken to the infirmary.” Jude’s voice is breathy, like she’s been running for ages or had a bad fright. As Camille glances over at the writhing teen on the bed she’ll bet it’s the second choice. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“Let her stay,” Jed croons, arms jerking fiercely against the restraints. He’s grinning at them, teeth brown and rotten inside his mouth and eyes that vile shade of yellow. “Maybe you can teach her a trick or two, Judy. Show her how to put her mouth to good use.”

“Be quiet!”

“Don’t worry, it’s a talent she’ll pick up easily. Her mother was a useless whore afraid of her own shadow and little Cami will be the same. Ain’t that right, Camille?” She chews on her lip and ducks her head, used to hearing such things on the nights Cameron gets drunk. It’s all just supposition anyway. Cameron’s never met her mother and Camille can barely remember the woman. “How else will you save up money to escape your daddy’s belt? The secrets that scream at you from every basement and crawlspace?”

“You don’t scare me,” Camille says, her voice even. “You’re just an angry man and I’ve dealt with those my whole life.”

“Don’t acknowledge the demon,” Jude warns. She’s terrified and angry in equal measures. Camille thinks Jude might have made a good mother had life been kinder to her.

The door slams shut behind them and Jed arches almost violently off the bed, cackling even as the veins stand out rigidly against the column of his throat. There are burst vessels around his eyes, too vivid against the bone white of his cheeks. “Do you want to know what’s in your future, Cami? Aren’t you curious?”

“Shut up!” Camille moves over to the bed all the same, pressing a gentle hand against Jed’s chest until he’s lying flat on the bed again.

“You’re going to be a murderer and you’re going to like how your daddy’s blood feels against your face.” He laughs, a low rumbling sound that makes her scant breakfast curdle. “You’re going to be happy about it. You won’t tell anyone because you don’t want to be locked away in here, but you’ll be happy.”

Camille opens her mouth to tell him where he can shove that perception of her, but the door slams open again under Oliver’s hand and cuts her off. She turns and backs away in one motion, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process.

“Get them out of here,” Oliver commands, pushing Camille towards the door. “Monsignor, get them out!” The priest latches onto Jude’s arm and hauls her from the room, Camille following after them with only a glance thrown over her shoulder.

“See you soon, little whores,” Jed calls, his crazed laugh following them down the hall. She’s nearly back to the office when the lights flicker and go out, the red emergency lights kicking on soon afterward. They cast an eerie glow over the asylum, like a sheen of blood covering every inch of the place. She thinks of Dante again, of a smiling priest and a pair of yellow eyes.

She knows without turning that Jed has died just like she knows that her father is the one that killed him. The information doesn’t shock her like it probably should. Instead of crying, Camille raises her head and keeps walking.

She barely registers the doors rattling on their hinges as she passes or the distant sound of a siren, she makes it to the office and locks the door behind her. Gage will tell her about Kit Walker and Grace Bertrand’s escape attempt in the morning, but until then she has Jed’s voice echoing in her head for the rest of the night. Her dream is filled with flecks of warm blood and a porcelain coffee cup in her hand as she brings it down against a solid cheekbone.

_You’re going to be a murderer and you’re going to like how your daddy’s blood feels against your face._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'entrate” is from Dante’s Divine Comedy, it means abandon hope all ye who enter here.
> 
> “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes" is from Macbeth.


	5. Sleepwalk

**1955**

It’s dark out and Oliver is gone for the night, prowling the streets like some sort of wolf on the hunt for small game. Camille inches closer to her door, listening to the sounds of Cameron’s choked grunts and soft swears, the sound of a woman keening and moaning like Cameron is a god amongst men. Camille’s pretty sure the woman is faking, but it’s as good a distraction as anything.

She opens the door just enough to squeeze past, sticking close to the walls and heavy furniture as she makes her way to the front door. She can see it, can see the glow of the porch light through a frosted glass panel set into the wall beside it. In fact, she’s got her hand on the doorknob when it starts to turn.

The door swings open before she can jump back, revealing Oliver and his cleanly pressed clothes with the starched collar. He looks surprised to see her standing there, but the surprise morphs into a betrayed anger when he spots the backpack clutched in her free hand.

“And where do you think you’re going, young lady?” His voice is steady and calm even as his dark eyes narrow in a thunderous rage. Camille drops the bag and widens her own eyes, making them fill with tears as she points towards the hall.

“Cameron is scaring me,” she says, voice carried on a whimper. She makes herself small, a cowering little thing in need of protection from the big bad wolf. Oliver doesn’t know that she hates them both, that she’d rather be the woodsman in this scenario rather than Little Red. Sometimes she dreams of strangling both men with Cameron’s belt. “I was going to find you, Daddy.”

The woman’s keening reaches a crescendo and then Oliver is striding in the direction of the noise. Camille isn’t stupid enough to run, not now that her father is on high alert. It’ll have to wait.

There’s a sound of arguing, a glass shattering, and then a woman is running out of the house using Cameron’s favorite bed spread as a dress. There’s a moment when giggles bubble up in her throat, threatening to spill, but then she hears more glass shattering and thumping footsteps and the giggles die away.

Cameron’s furious as he storms into the living room, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and a snarl, hair a tangled mess that sticks to his forehead with sweat. Camille is smart enough to step behind the sofa, keeping it between them as blue eyes narrow in on her.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing,” he asks, and there’s not pretense of calm there. It’s all a boiling rage that makes his cheeks flush and his eyes flash dangerously. She thinks of his belt again, the one he always had nearby, the one that leaves bruises along her back when she’s been bad. She’s only eight years old, but she’s so tired.

“She was coming to find me,” Oliver says as he comes into the room. He’s mostly composed, though there’s a splotch of red on that starched collar. It matches the red splattered along Cameron’s palm. If she squints, she can almost make out the shards of glass buried there.

“She’s a fucking liar!” Cameron’s lips pull back from his teeth, an animal showing of teeth that makes Camille want to show him hers. She’s small and not very strong, but she’s pretty sure she’s faster than he is. She eyes the artery in his neck, the one that pumps so much blood and made Oliver breathless just talking about it. “You were trying to run away.”

“Only to find Daddy,” she lies. They come easily to her now, little things that roll off her tongue and Oliver never realizes. Cameron does, though, and it makes something like satisfaction burn in her chest whenever she gets away with lying. He can’t do anything when Oliver’s around, not to Camille. “You were making weird noises, Uncle Cam. I thought you might be hurting that lady like you hurt me.”

Oliver’s eyes snap back to Cameron, a sort of righteous fury that makes Camille bite back a smile. All those times she’d been hit with the belt will be nothing compared to what Oliver will put Cameron through.

“You little brat,” he hisses, trying to start forward. He would have dived right over the couch had Oliver not gotten a handful of his thick hair. Cameron struggles valiantly, but Oliver is stronger and tosses him down the stairs into the basement, locking the door after they hear the solid thump of Cameron hitting the ground.

“How did he hurt you, Cami?” Oliver’s voice is rough, but he’s doing his best to seem calm and put together.

“With a belt,” she says. Oliver nods and disappears into Cameron’s room, coming out a moment later with the only belt that the man seems to adore. It’s dark leather with a gold buckle, a solid thing that’s made to last and probably costs an arm and a leg.

“This one?”

“Yes, sir.” He nods again, staring down at the belt in disgust. **_I’ll strangle him_**. The thought is sudden and not her own, a rumbled baritone that belongs to Oliver. He’s still looking at the belt but she can see behind his eyes, the black gathering like rain clouds or…. No, not rain clouds. It’s like a bunch of balloons, pitch black and throbbing. **_I’ll kill him for this_**.

 _If you kill him, the cops will take you away from me, Daddy_.

He glances up and meets her gaze, the disgust fading into confusion and then understanding. The blackness changes to dark red, the anger simmering beneath his skin like molten lava. He won’t kill Cameron tonight, but it’ll be a while before the man is healed enough to take the belt after Camille again.

**1964**

_“While the memory of you lingers like a song,”_ Camille sings quietly, typing out a report on the typewriter. _“Darling, I was so wrong….”_ Betsy Brye continues to sing through the radio, the thick stone walls making the signal weak in this part of the building. _“The night fills my lonely place. I see your face spinning through my brain.”_

 _“I know I want you so, I still love you and it drives me insane.”_ She looks up from Oliver’s notes to see Gage in the doorway, giving her a thousand watt smile. “I love that song.”

“Me too.” She has the record at home, though she needs to buy a new set of needles for her player.

“Shouldn’t you be at school? It’s Monday.”

“Dad’s letting me take a sick day.” The truth of the matter is that he prefers to keep her close after one of Cameron’s punishments go too far. He’d stumbled into the kitchen half-drunk Sunday morning and dragged Camille out of her bed, giving her a few kicks when he couldn’t get his belt undone. He’s in the basement right now and Camille’s back is still tender. She probably won’t go to school on Tuesday either.

“You don’t look sick to me.” His smile has dimmed somewhat and his gaze is focused on the way one hand keeps going to her lower back. “You get hurt?”

“Fell on the ice.” He doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t try to argue. She’s thankful for that if nothing else. “Did you need something?” He shakes his head and the brilliant smile is back, a small laugh following it.

“Uh, yeah actually. I was wondering if you wanted to go eat lunch with me.”

“I can’t leave.”

“I brought it with me.” He holds up wicker basket, one better suited to picnics in the summer rather than mental institutions in early November. She arches a brow and the smile turns sheepish, a good look on him. “I made some cherry cobbler last night and my pops made a couple of ham sandwiches to go along with it.” Camille chews on her lip for a moment before nodding, writing out a note to her father and switching off the radio before joining Gage out in the hallway.

“So, does this place have a cafeteria?” She hasn’t exactly had a chance to explore since the Jed Potter incident.

“Yeah, but it’s no good. Come on, I know a good spot.” He takes her hand and leads her towards another flight of stairs that leads to the third floor. The rooms up here seem to be abandoned, the doors shut and the rooms dark, a layer of dust so thick on the floor that they leave footprints in their wake.

He unlocks a door seemingly at random, leading her up another short flight of stairs until they’re inside a large room. It’s all open space, the ceiling forming a sharp V and a window showing the whole front yard of the asylum. A brittle frost covers the grass even at noon, the watery sunlight adding a surreal quality to everything.

“Frank showed me this place when I first started here.”

“It’s beautiful.” There’s no dust to be found in the room, a nice table and chairs set up in front of the large window so that the sunlight will wash over the occupants. She can imagine spending a spring afternoon in here, a fresh bouquet of tulips set in the middle of the table. “Do you eat in here every day?”

“Not every day, but whenever I get the chance. Lunch breaks are kind of random since we never know when a patient is going to act up. Just last week I had to haul Spivey off one of the nuns.”

“He tried to assault a _nun?”_

“Guy’s a sicko.” Gage shrugs as he sets the basket down on the polished table, opening it and beginning to set out their lunch. The sandwiches are on two separate plates and covered in saran wrap, the cobbler in a porcelain bowl to keep it warm. Last comes two cans of soda that Gage opens with a flourish. He tries to make it look graceful and fancy, but it’s ruined when the RC Cola spews out over the cuff of his uniform.

“Very smooth,” she laughs, taking one of the cans from him. He’s laughing too, bringing out a napkin to wipe the soda off his hand.

“My smoothness is genetic. You should see my pops open a bottle of champagne.” She snorts, imagining an older version of Gage ducking when the champagne cork pops out and ricochets around the room. She doesn’t know it yet, but the image isn’t too far off from reality.

“I can imagine.”

“Here, let me get your seat.” He pulls her chair out, a proper gentleman until he forgets that he’s still holding one of the cans and some of the cola spills down the front of her dress. “Oh God, I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t worry about it, Gage. It’s not going to stain.” She dabs at it with her own napkin, able to get the worst of it up. The dress is black anyway, so it’s not like it’ll be noticeable to anyone that isn’t looking for it. Gage doesn’t seem to hear her, snatching up his own napkin and dabbing at her dress. “Is this some more of that genetic smoothness you were tell me about?”

“Huh?” He seems to realize right about then that he’s touching a very specific part of her anatomy and his cheeks heat up in a cute blush. “Oh shit! I mean, shoot— I mean….” He huffs out a sigh, shaking his head and dropping onto the chair opposite her. “By smoothness I meant that I inherited all of my father’s awkwardness. It’s a work in progress.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you’re the first boy that’s ever touched my boob.” He chokes on air, coughing a few times without meeting her gaze. It’s almost funny to have this type of affect on a boy since all the ones in her class barely notice her. They tend to follow after the head cheerleader, a sweet girl named Victoria that helps Camille on her math.

“I really am sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. All’s forgiven as long as I get to try your famous cobbler.” The blush fades some, but his cheeks are still a light pink as he unwraps the sandwiches.

“Dessert comes last.”

“Now you sound like my dad.”

“Nah, I sound like my mom. You should hear the way she rants when Pops sneaks into the Christmas fudge before dinner.” He laughs and shakes his head a little, handing her one of the small plates. The sandwich has been cut into triangles, the ham and cheese smothered with Dijon mustard.

“My dad is the same way. Uncle Cam has a sweet tooth and he’s always trying to sneak cookies out of the kitchen when Dad isn’t looking. It usually ends with Cameron having chipmunk cheeks and Dad giving the weekly _do you want diabetes, you worthless tub of cookie dough_ lecture. We’re trying to figure out a shorter title.”

“Got any options yet?”

“Dad and I are fond of _you’re an idiot_ , but Cam takes offense to it.”

“I don’t know, that’s a pretty good one. He should just embrace it.” She laughs and is surprised to realize she’s done more of that since meeting Gage than she has the past fourteen years. “So, what do you think of the sandwich.”

“It’s perfect,” she says once she swallows.

“Is that why you’re only taking small bites?” As if to prove his point, he takes a huge bite of his sandwich, not even noticing the splotch of mustard on his lip. She takes a larger bite of her own sandwich, but it’s still a small thing compared to him. She’s had it drilled in her head that young ladies take small bites of food, that they chew exactly fifty times before taking another bite. It’s a hard habit to kick.

“Forgive me for being ladylike.”

“You don’t have to be a lady around me, Camille. Save that for your dad and uncle.” She relaxes a little in her seat, no longer sitting quite so stiffly. He smirks when he notices, taking a long drink of his soda.

They talk as they eat, trade jokes and laughter and small bits of themselves; the sunshine stays weak, but it’s just warm enough that she doesn’t shiver. When she finally gets her first taste of the cobbler, she’s pretty sure it’s better than sex. She doesn’t have much to base the assumption on, but she’s confident that no guy will ever be as good as this cobbler.

It’s an hour later before they make it back to the office, standing outside the closed door for a moment.

“I had fun,” she tells him honestly.

“Oh yeah, getting soda dumped all over your dress is definitely first date material.” He means it as a joke, but there’s a hint of pink behind his eyes that tells her that he means it for real too.

“Something to tell the grandchildren about.” They both laugh at that, Gage taking half a step closer. She can smell his soap when he’s this close, a crisp smell that’s not overpowering. It’s actually pleasant. She takes the next step closer, staring up at him from under her lashes. “Wanna make one more memory before the date is over?”

“It’d be my pleasure.” His lips press against her own, a barely there weight until she leans into it. Gage’s lips are soft and taste of cherries, moving against her own with a precision that makes her melt against him. She doesn’t remember grasping his shoulders, but that’s what she’s doing when he pulls back, her nails scratching lightly against the uniform shirt. “Was that okay?”

“Definitely made the top ten.” The sound of footsteps has them jumping away from each other guiltily, their breaths still ragged when Oliver turns the corner up ahead. His brows furrow when he spots Gage, but he doesn’t say anything about the flushed cheeks or swelling lips. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets. His brow smooths out when he reaches them, one hand reaching out to brush some of Camille’s hair behind her ear. “Where have you been?”

“Gage took me upstairs for lunch.”

“Why upstairs?” Oliver’s gaze focuses on Gage, suspicious but not accusing. He doesn’t view Gage as a threat and that’s probably a good thing. The last thing she needs is her father scaring away the only boy that’s ever shown an interest in kissing her.

“There’s a room with a great view,” Gage explains. All the awkwardness has been pushed away, confidence turning him into the happy boy that Camille had met on her first day. “You know the one you can see from out front? With the arched roof?” Oliver nods. “It’s that one.”

“Next time let me know before you steal her away. A note isn’t quite sufficient.”

“Next time I’ll invite you too, sir. I’ll bring a cake for dessert as long as my pops doesn’t eat it first.” Oliver manages a smile at that, looking satisfied as he nods again. “Well, I hate to cut this short, but I need to get back to work. Frank tends to get grumpy if he doesn’t get dessert before two.”

“I know the type.” Gage smiles again, reaching out to pat Camille’s shoulder before striding away. Oliver and Camille watch him go, no one speaking until he’s well out of earshot. “I like him.”

“Really,” Camille asks, surprised. Oliver hums, unlocking the office door and leading the way inside. He sets his briefcase on the desk near the typewriter, opening it and handing her a sheaf of papers.

“Type these up for me, will you?” She sits and begins typing without a word, a pleasant buzz making it hard not to wiggle in her seat. “And, Cami?” she looks up, surprised to see Oliver’s smile has widened just a bit. “Next time a boy kisses you, you should probably make sure no one’s around to see it. I had to wait around that corner for two minutes too long.”

“Yes, sir.”

 _“Sleepwalk,”_ Oliver hums,” _every night I just sleepwalk….”_


	6. Little Green Men

**1956**

Camille does manage to run away when she’s nine and Oliver’s gone for the weekend to keep his certification or something. She’s not sure why exactly he needs to spend two and a half days in some stuffy hotel that smells vaguely like stale cigarettes and body odor, but it means that she’s left in the house with only Cameron as the adult supervision.

She’s been on her best behavior for the past six months since the last incident and Cameron’s diligently avoided Oliver during that time as well. They walk on eggshells around each other, neither spending too long around the other, but now Oliver’s gone and those eggshells have been swept away.

The day she leaves starts like any other day—she gets ready for school, eats breakfast, and catches the bus. Cameron waves goodbye at the front door and she waves back, pretending to love her uncle Cam despite the way her fingers itch to _hurt_ and _tear_. Her smile is a practiced thing that teachers take in stride, saying she’s a pleasant, if distant, child.

School passes in a blur and no one notices when she walks right past the bus that afternoon, breaking from the usual pattern. She heads away from the park and away from Cameron’s belt, mustering all her confidence so that any passing adult doesn’t try to talk to her.

The first night is hard and she spends it huddled beneath a bridge with her backpack serving as an impromptu umbrella. Her teeth chatter so loudly that she’s surprised no one else can hear them, but she gets through the night without getting sick and the second day is easier.

It’s during the third day that everything comes unraveled. She’s in a park on a swing, moving just enough that only the toes of her shoes scrape the ground, munching on an apple she’d lifted out of a grocery store. She’s happy and the sun is warm against her face. Nothing bad at all can touch her.

Then someone grabs the chains of the swing and jerks them so that she’s falling, the apple rolling out of her hand and across the damp, spring grass. She doesn’t move at first, can’t bring herself to turn and see if the shadow looming over her belongs to who she thinks it does.

“Get up before people begin to stare.” The words are tightly controlled, spoken around the molars he’s grinding into a fine powder. She thinks about throwing clumps of dirt and grass at his face and running, but she just pushes herself up and hunches her shoulders. “You look filthy.”

“Sorry.”

“Let’s go. It’s time to take your medicine.” He keeps a hand on the scruff of her neck, blunt nails digging into the tender skin and sure to leave bruises. The car is idling in the parking lot and none of the other parents find it strange that Cameron manhandles her into the backseat, snapping out a quick,” Seatbelt” before getting behind the wheel. Oliver is home late the next evening and he’s too exhausted to notice the stiff way she walks or the speckles of blood on the buckle of Cameron’s favorite belt.

Camille doesn’t try to run again.

**1964**

Fridays are Camille’s favorites now that she’s a senior, the classes are mostly just filler things like home economics and Art History II, and she has a free period at the end of the day. She leaves shortly after one-thirty, walking back to her home long enough to change into more appropriate clothes before catching a bus to the asylum.

Ever since Cameron’s outburst last week he’d been pretty subdued, but Camille doesn’t trust him and neither does Oliver so she spends as little time as possible around the man. It’s just fine with her since it means being able to spend more time with Gage. He makes her laugh and feel like a little girl again, something she’s been missing these past few years.

“It’s gonna rain cats and dogs and here you are in another dress,” he jokes when he spots her. It’s become something like a joke between them, her and her array of dresses and jewelry. He calls them her armor, but he doesn’t know that she has no choice in which clothes she wears. She goes with the joke all the same, feeling comfortable in the stiff lace and silks for the first time in her life.

“Gotta look nice in case Noah shows up to build an ark,” she retorts, smoothing a hand over the bracelet around her left wrist. It’s a delicate thing made of silver that forms several coils and joins at her pulse point, a few square-shaped sapphires set into the coils. The bracelet goes well with the turquoise color of her dress, patterned with little swirls that look like peacock tails.

“Make sure you put in a good word for me if he does show up.”

“You got it.” His grin is a lopsided thing that she’s starting to fall in love with, but she keeps that to herself as she heads towards the common room. She stops in the open doorway where he’s standing, looking up at him with a grin of her own. “How’s your day been?”

“Busy. I had to go pick up a projector and film from across town early this morning on Jude’s orders, then I had to settle a fight between a couple of patients and keep anyone from finding out about that so they wouldn’t get in trouble, and now your dad’s cracking the whip.”

“What? Why?”

“The screen for the projector isn’t quite even enough for his standards.” Gage jerks his chin in the direction of the front of the room, Camille turning to find two men struggling with the heavy screen and her father a few feet away with a cigarette between his fingers.

“Ah yes, the perfectionist tendencies strike again. All of his hangers are exactly an inch and half apart in his closet and our coffee cups are stacked in the cupboard with the handles facing outward.” Gage raises a brow at that. “We drink a lot of coffee in our house.”

“Funny, I always took you as more of a tea person.”

“Tea is for the weak.”

“I like tea.”

“You have my pity.” She pats his cheek condescendingly, but her smile softens her words and he leans into her touch like he craves it. She wants to kiss him but she’s acutely aware of her father’s gaze lingering on them. He’s made it very clear that their kissing should take place far away from him. “I’d better go say hi to my dad before he tries to steal me away.”

“Good plan.” He presses a chaste kiss to her palm and then he’s off, heading towards the bakery in the back of the asylum. She moves over to her dad, smiling up at him.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“How was school,” he asks without preamble. “Any homework?”

“School was easy as always and no, I have no homework.” Oliver doesn’t look like he believes her at first, but she pulls a notebook out of her backpack. It’s little more than a memo pad, each page holding a schedule written in chicken scratch. She flips to the newest page, letting him read all the assignments she had in each class and what time she’d gotten them done. “See? No homework today.”

“Good because I have a feeling today is going to be a rough one.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you listen to the radio? There’s a Nor’easter heading our way and we might be stuck here tonight. Fun, right?” The sarcasm is almost a palpable thing and it makes her laugh. The laughs come easier these days and they seem to make Oliver’s face light up each time he hears one.

“I guess it’s a good thing I brought this then.” She puts the memo pad away and pulls out a book of poetry, bound in expensive leather with watercolor illustrations in the background. Oliver rolls his eyes when she holds it up proudly.

“You realize Poe’s work is morbid, right?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t care, do you?”

“No.” She flips the book open to her favorite and begins to read despite the way Oliver rolls his eyes so hard that she’s surprised when he doesn’t pull something. “In the greenest of our valleys by good angels tenanted, once a fair and stately palace—radiant palace—reared its head.”

“Yes, yes, I know how it goes. God only knows I’ve read it enough times whenever you got sick. You know, most kids prefer lullabies.”

“The only one you know is Earth Angel and that’s not exactly meant to lull children to sleep.” He scoffs but his lips are turned up slightly at the corners, a rueful smile that only she gets to see. It’s her daddy’s smile and it feels like home.

“I can’t even hear that song anymore without thinking of you. It’s the only song you ever wanted me to sing. I still don’t know why.”

“I dunno, I just like it.” She shrugs a shoulder and goes back to her book, wandering over to an empty table and taking a seat. There’s the usual hustle and bustle of the asylum, the chattering of the patients and employees alike, all of it adding up to a white noise.

She’s not sure how long she spends reading, barely registers her father moving her to a different seat, but it’s pitch black and raining outside when she finally closes the book. Folding chairs have been set up in the middle of the common room, the furniture pushed against the walls to give the feeling of a theater.

“Welcome, one and all, to Briarcliff Manor’s inaugural movie night,” Jude says, drunkenly swaying down the aisle. Some of her hair has fallen across her forehead, pale blonde and soft-looking in the dim lighting. “Whether this evening marks the start of a beloved tradition or just another bitter disappointment is entirely up to you.”

“Is she drunk,” Camille asks in a whisper, leaning closer to the person in front of her. The guy gives her a bewildered look, shrugging almost comically. It takes her a moment, but she recognizes him as Kit Walker, the infamous killer of women. She doesn’t feel nearly as scared as she probably should.

Jude stops just in front of the screen, pulling out a piece of paper before she continues her speech.

“Settle in and return with me to ancient Rome as we present the 1932 Cecil B. DeMille classic, _The Sign of the Cross_ —” she gestures with one hand at the screen, her movements nearly as uncoordinated as her words. “Starring Miss Claudette Colbert as the Empress, Poppaea, and as the Emperor Nero, Mister Charles Laughton, who I understand is an enormous whoopsie.”

“Definitely drunk,” Kit whispers, leaning back in his seat. “Think she’d share with us?”

“Something tells me that she isn’t that nice,” Camille whispers back. Kit snorts and the girl beside him gives a quiet huff of laughter. A thunderclap has several of the patients freaking out, looking around and crying out in fear.

“None of that now,” Jude says quickly, sounding almost comforting. She claps her hands, the patients calming once the thunder has passed. She starts back down the aisle, smiling and reaching out to touch the patients. She even gives Camille a pat on the head when she passes. “Don’t be afraid of the dark. At the end of a storm is a golden sky and the bright silver song of a lark.”

“I think I’ve had this nightmare before.” Kit grins again and she’s shocked to find that he’s handsome in a boyish kind of way. Not fully grown yet, but well on his way. He’s got a soft face and kind eyes and a bit of hair that forms the perfect Clark Kent curl over his forehead.

“Walk on through the wind. Walk on through the rain. Though your dreams may be tossed and blown, walk on with hope….” Jude trails off, voice choked with tears as she gets closer to Frank and the projector. “Walk on with hope in your heart and you’ll never walk alone. But she was alone….”

“Maybe she drank something a little stronger than communion wine.”

“Tiny, little helpless thing out in the world….”

“I think she might have smoked a little something,” Kit says, shaking his head. Jude’s rambling now, incoherent babble that makes Camille want to go back to her poems.

“Lights!” the lights flicker off and the projector whirs to life as Jude walks out of the room, a little spark of guilt almost making her eyes glow. No one else notices it, she doubts anyone else can see it the way she can, but it’s there all the same. Camille wonders how much guilt Jude must have felt when the little girl hit the windshield. The image of broken glasses and red lipstick vanishes as quickly as it appears in her mind’s eye and she drops back into the present.

Too dark to read so she may as well gossip with the serial killer. 

The movie’s halfway over when she grows bored of it, sneaking her way past Frank and into the hallway. Gage had said something about his patrol being on the second floor on Friday evenings, so that’s where she heads. If anyone tries to stop her on the way, she can just say that she’s going to her father’s office.

She’s halfway down one of the unending hallways when the lights start to flicker overhead, a faint buzzing making her ears ache and her hands itch to cover them.

“What the hell?” She looks around, but she’s the only one in the hallway to talk about this. Maybe the storm’s going to knock out the power and she’ll have to blindly wander the halls until she falls down the steps and breaks her neck. Maybe Kit’s waiting around one of the numerous corners to kill her and skin her like all those other women. Maybe…. Maybe she should just head back before her imagination drives her batty.

She hugs herself as she turns, jumping back when she notices a vague shape not too far away. They’re at the end of the hall, close to Jude’s revered staircase that winds its way to the second floor.

“Who is that?” There’s no answer, the figure swaying slightly in place before disappearing between one flash of lightning and another. “Okay, to hell with this. I’m not about to be sucked into some kind gothic horror story. Nope.” She basically sprints the entire way back to the common room, narrowly avoiding a collision when Kit and two other women slide into the hall. They’re soaking wet and pale, looking at Camille like she’s the fucking crazy person instead of vice versa. “Outta my way, whackos.”

She shoulders her way past them and into the room, the lights back on and the projector off. Frank looks put out as he heads out of the room after Jude, muttering something under his breath that sounded like _damn Mexican_. Oliver gives Camille a brief once-over when she sits next to him.

“What happened,” he asks, brushing his hand lightly over her cheek. “You look terrified.”

“I was heading to your office when the lights started to flicker and I…. I saw something that wasn’t actually there. Like, a ghost or something. I don’t know.” Oliver chuckles and wraps a secure arm around her shoulders, drawing her tight against his side.

“Maybe you should take a break from all those horror stories you bury your nose in.” She nods, resting her head against his shoulder and ignoring the crowds heading to their rooms. Once the room is emptied of people and she can’t hear any footsteps outside, she looks up to her father and allows herself to feel like that scared little girl he found alone in the park.

“Think you can sing me my lullaby on the way home?”

“Anything for my little angel.”

Winter break starts on a Monday morning, a freedom from classes making her chest feel lighter than it has in months. No more tests, no more reports, nothing but relaxation for a whole week and a half. Just what she needs.

It isn’t exactly a surprise when Oliver wakes her up bright and early that same Monday morning and tells her to get ready to go to the asylum. There’s part of her that wants to rebel, to just pull the covers over her head and throw a hissy fit but doing that means making him angry and she’d rather not to that this early in the morning. She hasn’t even had coffee yet.

Camille pulls on a dress, the same one from last Friday but she won’t realize that until later, and shuffles into the bathroom to do her hair and makeup. By the time she makes it into the kitchen, the men are eating a cold breakfast and there’s a steaming mug of coffee waiting on her. Thank God for small miracles.

“She could always stay here and do some cleaning,” Cameron is saying as she sits down. “Good knows the laundry’s starting to back up.”

“So do the laundry,” Oliver shrugs. Cameron drums his fingers on the table, the movement drawing attention to the layers of scars along his knuckles. She used to wonder how he got those scars when she was a little, but then he punched a wall after Oliver had sneered an insult and she’d never wondered about it again. “It’s not like you have anything to do now that school is out.”

“I’ve been cleaning and teaching for the past two months, Thredson.” His voice holds a note of warning, the only bit of warning anyone gets when it comes to the man’s temper. He’s never swung on Oliver, though, not once. “I’m _tired_.”

“So leave.” Oliver and Cameron match gazes, two predators sizing the other one up. Between them, Camille goes stock still with her spoon poised over her bowl of cereal. “I only needed your help with Camille when she was a child, but she’s practically grown now. She’ll be leaving for college soon.”

“You expect me to leave her with _you?_ ” Oliver’s expression never changes, just the same calm collection whenever Cameron gets in a mood like this. “With all that I know about you and your hobbies, why would I do that?”

“I’m not the one that likes to beat up little girls and prostitutes.” The drumming stops and then Cameron’s fist is hitting the table, some of his coffee spilling over the rim. Camille watches the trail of brown as it slides down the side of the cup and pools onto the table, still hot enough for steam to curl up and away. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re the one in charge here, Cameron.”

Cameron storms out of the kitchen, leaving his dishes behind and slamming the front door behind him. Oliver barely spares the scene a glance before going back to his breakfast and the morning paper. He’s a little too calm for a man that’s just been yelled at, but his thoughts are calm and there’s some color behind his eyes.

Camille forces herself to eat, but the cereal tastes like ash on her tongue.

“Hey,” Camille says, walking into the bakery. Kit and Grace glance up from where they’ve huddled together, stepping slightly apart with a guilty look thrown at a passing orderly. “Dad wants to see you, Kit.”

“On my way,” he says with a nod. She turns to wait for him in the hallway, the smell of baking bread making her sick. The thought of food after the showdown this morning is an awful thing and she’d rather push it aside until lunch. The door swings open as Kit steps out, cheeks flushed a healthy pink despite the black eye and split lip he’s sporting.

“What happened to you?”

“The doc here isn’t fond of me.” She makes a soft noise of understanding, one of her hands going to the small of her back. Cameron’s always been careful not to leave any scars, nothing except a few bruises and a bone deep ache that no one will ever see.

“If you’re being hurt then why did you bother to come back after you escaped the other night?” He stops so suddenly that she doesn’t even realize it until she’s three steps ahead, turning to look at him curiously. The color has drained from his face and there’s a panic in his eyes that makes her feel guilty.

“I don’t know what you mean. I never escaped.”

“You were wet when you headed back to your room. You and Grace and that other lady that my dad’s fond of. You’d obviously been outside in the rain.” He goes to shake his head, a denial on his tongue, but she stops him with a raised hand. “I’m not going to tell on you, Kit. I was just curious.”

“There’s….” He trails off and steps closer, bending down to whisper in case someone tries to overhear them. “There’s something out back of this place, some kind of monster. It was eating one of the patients that disappeared the other night.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“No, I’m answering your question. Those monsters chased us back here.” She thinks back to the vague figure she’d seen that night, the whine that had made her ears ache and the way it had vanished. Maybe this place is haunted. “What? What is it?”

“I saw something too.” She wrings her hands together, chewing on her lip.

“What did you see?”

“It doesn’t matter. Come on, Dad doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” She starts walking again, forcing Kit to stay with her or be left in her dust. It doesn’t take much for him to catch up, his long legs giving him an advantage that she doesn’t have.

“Tell me what you saw that night. Was it a monster?”

“No.” She shakes her head, wincing. “I don’t know what it was. The lights starting flickering and there was this sound that hurt my ears and then the thing was just _gone_.” He pulls her to a stop, one hand holding onto her elbow.

“What did it look like?”

“Vague, like it wasn’t really there.”

“Like some kind of mirage? Gray and flickering like a candle’s flame?” He looks hopeful and she suddenly remembers the delusion he has, the one about aliens that kidnapped his wife. She shouldn’t have said anything, he’s not stable enough to deal with this.

“No,” she lies. “Now come on. I don’t want to get in trouble just because you want to compare ghost stories.” She leads the way to the second floor, trying to keep some distance between her and Kit for her own sanity. If she goes around telling people that she’s seen little green men and can read minds, then she’ll be locked in a room down the hall from Kit.

“Are you scared of him? Your dad, I mean.”

“Of course not.” Lying came easily when she was a kid and it’s a natural response now that she’s seventeen. “Have you been to his office yet?”

“No, we’ve been meeting in the common room. I think he was trying to keep me away from you.” He probably was. “Which makes me wonder why he sent you after me.” The answer comes in the form of the sapphic reporter slipping out of the office ahead of them, swallowed in her red cardigan and blue nightgown. “Lana?”

“Is he busy?”

“No, he’s free,” Lana says, walking away on quick feet. Camille leads the way into the office, stepping to the side for Kit to enter. She shuts the door after him before moving to stand behind her father’s desk.

“Hey, Doc,” Kit greets, sitting in the folding chair across from Oliver. Camille has developed a seething hatred of those chairs after she sat in one and got a splinter in her ass. “Camille said you needed to see me.”

“Yes, I find myself in a bit of an ethical dilemma,” Oliver says, clasping his hands on top of his desk. He doesn’t look prostrate with worry. In fact, he looks a little satisfied. “If I deem you sane, you’ll almost certainly go to the electric chair. On the other hand, judging you unfit to stand trial means that you’ll spend the rest of your days in Briarcliff or a similar institution.”

“I’m not seeing the dilemma.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, Kit. I also don’t think you’re evil. My daughter has told me….” He trails off to spare a glance at Camille, the way she’s scratching at the top of one hand like a nervous tic. “Well, she’s got a certain sense about people and she’s convinced that you aren’t guilty. Hence the dilemma.”

“You two really think I’m innocent?” Camille nods even as Oliver shakes his head from side to side like he’s still debating the notion.

“I believe you’re a victim of our brutish society that drove you to commit acts so terrible that your psyche concocted this elaborate fantasy about alien abduction to absolve you of your guilt.” Camille scrunches her nose and shakes her head, spotting her father’s lie a mile away.

“No, that’s not true.”

“I think you’ll find it is the truth if you just let those walls down. You’re sick, Kit, but you don’t deserve to die because of that. You just need the right dosage of medication to balance all those chemicals in your brain.”

“But—” Oliver sends Camille a sharp look that has her mouth snapping shut. He turns back to face Kit, leaning forward to make sure he has the man’s full attention.

“I’m willing to lie to the courts in order to save your life, Kit, but only under one condition.”

“Anything. Name it.”

“For the rest of our time together, you have to face the truth of what you’ve done. If you can do that, then I’ll be able to leave here feeling like I’ve done some good.” Kit looks shell-shocked, resting his elbows on his knees. There’s horror in his eyes, darkening the brown almost to black.

“I already told you what happened.”

“You told me a version of it, yes. Now let me tell you how it really went.” Oliver holds out a hand, Camille giving him the folder she’d compiled over the past couple of months. Each page is carefully typed, containing a few photographs of the crime scenes that she’d tried her best not to look at.

“What’s that?”

“Your folder. Are you ready?”

“I-I think….” Kit glances over Oliver’s shoulder at Camille, trying to read anything past the mask she wears. It’s probably a good thing that he can’t because the anxiety gnawing at her would send him running. “Yes.” The folder is opened and Oliver begins to speak.

“You married Alma in secret. You didn’t feel like you could tell anyone and as time passed, what should’ve been your greatest joy became your greatest shame. The pressure in you built until it was released on January sixteenth. Donna Burton was abducted from the library she worked at, a short drive from your own place of business. Her remains were found two days later with her skin removed and her head missing.”

“Jesus,” he gasps, leaning away from the photos that Oliver sets in front of him.

“Why did you feel the need to take their skin, Kit? Why the head?” **_Because every boy craves a mother’s touch_**. The thought is familiar, rumbling from Oliver’s mind and tangled up in black balloons. “It’s because you needed to obliterate her race and identity, the very things about Alma that you’ve come to resent.”

“No.”

“It happened again in March when Allison Rydell was taken outside her home. The next person to die was Alma. The night it happened, you said you had been visited at work by friends. You said that they were suspicious and followed you home.”

“It wasn’t them.”

“Of course it was. Maybe Alma had had enough of the hiding and the shame. When she confronted you about it, you snapped. You finally took out all the aggression and anger on the person you were meant to protect. You killed the thing you loved the most.”

“It wasn’t me.” Kit meets Camille’s gaze again, holding it this time. She can see fragments of his thoughts, fractured things that echo and cling to blue-purple balloons. She can see pieces of that night, the bright flash of light that lifted him off the ground and a familiar whine before she sees a wavering image that can’t possibly be real.

Kit Walker is innocent.


	7. Watching

**January 1964**

Camille spends the whole day in the library despite the fact that she should be in school. She pretends to read a book about birds, running her finger over the illustrations of shimmering blue feathers. The real reason she’s here is tucked away behind the reference desk, Miss Burton totally unaware of the eyes on her.

Camille watches over the edge of her book as the woman continues to work, tapping away at a typewriter and occasionally helping someone find a book. She’s got a stern mouth that tends to pucker when noisy kids walk inside, but she’s also got kind eyes.

Her thoughts are easy to grasp onto if Camille really tries, pieces of quotes from favorite books, small reminders in shades of pink to order a few more books, blue ones that mean rotating a few other books down to the basement for a month or so. Camille likes Miss Burton, the sweet way she pointed Camille towards horror instead of romance and the hard stare she’d given Cameron when he’d tried to protest the choice.

 _“A young girl needs escape, Mister Miller_ ,” she’d said, glaring up at him despite her own lack of height. _“If you force her to keep her nose buried in trashy romance books, then she’ll never get that escape. Camille, dear, Poe might be to your liking.”_

Miss Burton looks up when she senses Camille’s gaze, sending her a kind smile and a wave. Camille returns the gesture, though it falls a little flat. She remembers the way her father’s eyes had tracked Miss Burton yesterday when he’d come to pick her up, the bundles of black and white balloons writhing with his dark thoughts.

She tries not to look into her father’s mind too often.

“What are you reading today,” Miss Burton asks, coming to stand beside Camille’s chair. Camille holds up the book and waves it slightly, the white pages crisp and smooth under her fingers. If she focuses for a long moment, she can see the book aging, the pages going yellow and curling in on themselves as it exchanges hands. She can see it as it travels all the way to California and ends its journey buried in a crawlspace with a dead teenager in a house shrouded in pulsing red tendrils.

“I figured I’d take a break from Poe,” Camille explains, fighting the urge to drop the book onto the table.

“And you decided birds were the next logical step?” There’s amusement in her smile and Camille’s is genuine when she returns it this time. “How about you try one of my personal favorites?” She stands and motions for Camille to follow her, leading her over to the stacks and browsing until she finds what she’s looking for.

 _“The Hobbit?_ Isn’t this meant for kids?”

“It’s a good read no matter your age. I used to read it to my son before he went away to college.” Miss Burton shrugs and hands it over, stealing away the bird book. “And if your darling uncle tries to take it from you, tell him I’m not afraid to hit grown men with the dictionary.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Cami, are you here,” Oliver calls from the front of the library. Miss Burton puckers her lips in distaste, arching an unimpressed brow when Camille winces. “Camille?”

“I gotta go. Thanks for the book, Miss Burton.” She heads out of the library with her father, riding back to their house in silence. Donna Burton disappears two days later, around the same time that Oliver starts to spend more time in their basement with the door locked. Camille tries to ignore the coincidence, even manages to finish her borrowed book.

In March, Oliver makes her an appointment for a teeth cleaning and tells her to pay careful attention to Allison Rydell.

**December 1964**

Camille and Gage spend Tuesday afternoon in the room that overlooks the courtyard, snuggled up on a blanket with a smuggled bottle of wine beside them. He’s got an arm around her shoulders and her head is on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“What’s that you’re singing?”

“Hmm?” She looks up at him, lulled into a daze by the calmness of the afternoon. The walls are well insulated so they can’t hear anything else in the building, it’s like they’re all by themselves.

“You’re singin’.”

“It’s just something my dad sings to me when I have nightmares.” She shrugs a little, snuggling closer to him. Their legs are twined together, and she longs to get closer, to sink into him so that they’re one person. “It’s one of his favorites.”

“Sing it for me, then.”

 _“Earth angel, earth angel, will you be mine? My darling dear, love you all the time. I’m just a fool in love with you._ ” She can feel him hum, the vibrations of it rumbling in his chest and sounding like a content house cat. _“Earth angel, earth angel, the one I adore. Love you forever and ever more.”_

“My mom likes that song, too. Said she heard it playing one day in spring and now it’s all she can think of when the flowers start to bloom and Easter rolls around.”

“Your parents sound so neat.”

“You could always come over and meet them someday.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. How about I come by tomorrow and pick you up? We could have dinner at my house and you could finally meet my parents.” He makes it sound so easy, but she’s got two overprotective men in her house that don’t like her to be out of sight for too long.

“Um, I’d have to ask my dad first. Can I give you an answer tomorrow morning?”

“That’s just fine.” She lets out a sigh, relief washing through her. Gage doesn’t get angry when she doesn’t have the correct answer right away. He’s easygoing where the other men in her life are wound too tight, all warm smiles and twinkling eyes. “I’d better get to the bank before they close.”

“Aren’t you working today?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I do get days off.” They sit up and she can see the dimple in his cheek that she likes to kiss. “I thought I’d drop by and spend some time with you for good luck.”

“Why do you need good luck?” They stand and gather their things, Camille folding the blanket while Gage piles empty dishes and the wine bottle in his wicker basket.

“I’m trying to get a loan to help me open my bakery. I think I’ve got enough of my own money saved up that the loan should just be a small thing.” Camille drops the blanket onto the table before launching herself into Gage’s arms, giving him a long kiss that leaves her head spinning when she pulls back. “What was that for?”

“For luck.” She presses another kiss to his lips, tasting the sweet wine on his tongue. “I’ll see you later.”

“Keep kissing me like that and I might just stay here.” She laughs, pushing him towards the door. “I’ll call you tonight. Around six?”

“That’s perfect.” She walks with him to the front door, waving goodbye until he’s disappeared into the worn out pickup he drives. It makes a rumbling purr and it’s a cute red color so she’s becoming fond of it.

“Your Sir Lancelot riding away on his noble steed,” Oliver asks with a dry smile as he joins her at the door. “Where’s he off to?”

“The bank to get a loan.” Oliver hums an answer, resting a hand on the back of her head. “He’s going to have a successful bakery, you know.” She nods with a surety that she only feels about certain things; Cameron is going to die in the next month, Oliver is slowly spiraling away from sanity, and Gage Kincaid will have his bakery. She just knows.

“What’s your opinion on Lana?” She follows his gaze to the reporter, the pretty one with hope flickering in her eyes. Lana clings to the idea of freedom and sweet perfume that wraps around her lover like silk.

“I don’t really know her.”

“Just watch her for me. Tell me what you think.” She does as she’s told, moving to sit in a chair a few feet from where Lana’s sitting. She’s curled up in an armchair, her cheek resting against the scratchy material and letting her mind wander. It makes it easier for Camille to see past the balloons and into the place where her thoughts run rampant.

Lana’s thoughts are hazy and disconnected because of her meds, snippets that are barely half-formed before they fade away like cotton candy in water. The main thought that keeps passing through seems to belong to a poem by Robert Frost. **_Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, that sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, and spills the upper boulders in the sun; and makes gaps even two can pass abreast_**. The poem keeps repeating, tattered around the edges and sparking with electricity.

“Why are you watching me?” Camille drops back into her own mind and finds Lana staring at her, eyes narrowed. “Are you spying?”

“No, Miss Winters, just daydreaming. Have to escape somehow, right?” Lana gives a reluctant nod, sitting up straight now. “I’m Camille, by the way. Oliver’s daughter.”

“I can’t really picture him as a father.” No one can, he doesn’t have the soft edges necessary. “Is he a good one?” Camille’s quiet for a long while as she thinks that question over, creating and batting away lies before finally settling on a nod. Oliver doesn’t hurt her and he loves her, but he also hasn’t thrown out the man that likes to hurt her. He took her from her ma.

“He told me that you’re a reporter. What did you write about?”

“Mostly recipes. I wrote one about the migration patterns of birds. Nothing exactly groundbreaking, but I’m getting there. I’m writing up a hell of a scandal when I get out of this place.” **_Friday, just wait until Friday_**. “What about you? What do you do?”

“Survive.” She can feel a set of eyes on her, turning in her seat to find Oliver standing in the doorway. He nods at the front door, arching one of his thick brows. “Looks like it’s time to go. I’ll see you tomorrow, Lana.”

Camille is lost in her own thoughts when Oliver walks into the office, apologizing to Kit even as he starts to ramble about Grace and the sterilization sister Jude’s ordered. She can’t focus for long, the rage too bright and the panic too sharp in Kit’s mind for her to take.

“Grace isn’t my patient,” Oliver says, opening the case he’d brought in with him. It’s recording equipment, already set up and ready to be turned on. Cameron had helped Oliver with it this morning, his lip busted and a dark bruise shadowing his jaw. “Let’s concentrate on you for now and then I’ll see what I can do for Grace. Please, sit.” Kit drops onto the chair, sitting across from Oliver with a sullen kind of resignation. “Do you remember what we discussed last time?”

“That I need to confess about killing Alma and those others,” Kit says with a nod.

“Only if you believe you did it, Kit. If you can unbury those memories, then the psychosis of aliens might go away. What we’re doing here is having you describe what you think happened and then I’ll play it back for you. Hearing it in your own words will help you process it all better.”

“And if I do this, then I won’t go to the chair, right? I’ll stay here with Grace?”

“That’s our bargain, yes.” Oliver flicks his gaze over to Camille, pursing his lips. “Sweetheart, why don’t you wait for us outside? You’re too young to hear this confession, I think.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmurs, rising from her chair. She spares a soft smile for Kit before she leaves, patting his shoulder. He needs all the luck he can get because she doubts this is going to end well.

The hall is mercifully empty at this time of day, the shift change for orderlies and guards meaning less traffic. Gage should be done with the bank by now, probably celebrating at home with his parents and a crisp check in his pocket. He’ll have a wonderful bakery with red bricks and glass display cases, the lights shining bright overhead and the whole place smelling of sweet things and love.

He's going to give her the news tonight, so she’ll be patient and wait for his call. Until then, she has nothing to do here except explore. She starts on the second floor, quickly realizing it holds no mysteries and heading downstairs. She has no real destination in mind, grazing her fingertips against the wall to her right as she walks. Her pace is slow, a meandering thing suited to strolls through the park in summer evenings, listening to cicadas.

Camille’s just turning a corner when she runs into someone, having to grab the wall to stay upright. The person turns out to be a man that towers over her, completely bald apart from a carefully groomed goatee, his cheeks flushed red with frustration as he uses his cane to balance himself back out.

“I’m so sor—”

“Watch where you’re going,” he snaps. His lips have drawn back in a snarl, but his teeth are dull and yellow and she’s not afraid. She may not be the bravest person or even the biggest, but she’s got a mean streak a mile wide on days like this. She meets his gaze and looks past the bundles of black and grey behind his eyes, digging deep until she finds something useful.

“Careful who you’re talking to, Hans,” she warns in a soft voice. “A crueler person might just head to the police station and tell the men in blue all about the creatures you keep in the woods.” She takes a step closer to him, invading his personal space with a mean little smirk. “Or maybe about that snuff film you made. You remember that one, don’t you? How did it feel when you sawed through that woman’s legs?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tries to hiss the words, but he’s lost his breath and all the color in his face. Camille tilts her head to the side, peering deeper.

“Have a better attitude the next time someone tries to apologize to you or I’ll tell Sister Jude all about the experiments you did in Germany, Hans.” She delivers a condescending pat to his cheek before striding off, the smirk settling into a satisfied grin.

She keeps walking until she winds back up on the second floor, rapping her knuckle against the closed office door. It’s been an hour or so, surely Kit’s done with his therapy by now.

“It’s open,” Oliver says, voice muffled through the wood. She pushes the door open and steps inside, watching as Oliver packs up the last of his files. “Do you have all your things together, honey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, we’re getting out of here as soon as we can.” He snaps his briefcase closed and finally looks up at her, pursing his lips. “Why do you look so smug? Did you yell at someone?”

“A man was rude to me so I was rude back.” She shrugs and tries to look innocent, but it’s hard to manage when all she wants to do is laugh. “Do you need help getting everything to the car?” Oliver studies her a moment later, letting out a low hum at whatever he finds. “Daddy?”

“Actually I’d like you to bring the car around to the front door. It’ll make getting everything out easier.” He pauses and seems to argue with himself for a moment before letting out a rushed sigh. “I also need you to ride home in the backseat because we’re sneaking Lana out.”

“Pardon?”

“I said we’re taking Lana with us.”

“As in the woman you made me watch earlier? We’re breaking her out of a mental asylum?”

“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

“I probably should.” She bites back a smile and grabs the keys off his desk. “I’ll meet you out front in five minutes.” It might even take her longer to figure out the damn gearshift, but five minutes is a nice goal. If she meets it, she’ll let herself have two cookies after dinner instead of just one. She’s earned the damn thing.

Camille moves back down the stairs to the first level, striding purposefully through the halls to the front door. They won’t be back here after today, but she can’t bring herself to care. She’ll still be able to see Gage whenever she wants with the added bonus of not seeing patients being mistreated.

“Hey, Camille, you seen your dad,” Frank calls from the second-floor landing. She stops just shy of the front door, looking over her shoulder. Lana is hidden behind the stairs, a faint smear of color against the dark wood and black iron. Up above, Frank doesn’t even notice her.

“I think he’s in his office,” she says, making sure to keep her gaze on Frank instead of the woman she’ll be helping to smuggle out.

“Thanks, kid!” Frank takes off at a fast walk, arms swinging at his sides and nightstick bumping against his thigh. She’s seen him crack someone over the head with that thing and it makes her hate him a little bit. He’s mostly okay, just overzealous.

Camille lets out a breath and continues outside, almost running all the way to the sleek car that her father adores. It’s a powder blue thing and made to last, she just hopes she doesn’t crash it trying to drive up to the front door. It starts without a hitch, and she’s able to figure out the gearshift after a couple of minutes, making her slow way up the drive to the door. Oliver and Lana are coming out right as she puts the car in park, Camille jumping out to help put Oliver’s stuff in the back.

“Get in the back and stay low,” he instructs. “It won’t look odd for two people to be up front, but someone might get suspicious if there’s three people in the car.” Camille nods, ducking into the backseat and staying low until they’re out of sight of the asylum.

The house is dark when they pull into the driveway, Cameron out on a bender or picking a fight.

“Camille, would you put this in my office,” Oliver asks once they’re out of the car, handing her the box filled with work supplies. “You know where it all goes.”

“Yes, sir.” She heads straight for his office, setting the box in his chair before starting her task. The typewriter goes on the exact center of the desk, the pens go back in the _World’s Best Dad_ mug beside the typewriter, the files go in the top tray, extra papers go in the bottom tray, and the cardboard box will be broken down and taken to the trash can in the morning.

She’s about to head back into the living room, but then she hears a muffled conversation coming from down the hall. She pauses in the hall, watching as Oliver shifts his footing so that he fills the doorway of his hobby room. No one else is allowed in there, but Lana seems to have wandered inside.

“I make the shades myself,” Oliver’s says, his posture relaxed and his glass of wine gripped loosely in his left hand.

“What material do you use,” Lana asks, barely heard. Camille can almost picture the other woman’s expression of dawning horror mixed with the kind of dread that makes your stomach cramp. She’s felt it often enough around Cameron.

“Skin.” Lana’s scream is short lived, but it still makes Camille flinch and cover her ears. She doesn’t want to know about this side of her father, she just wants him to be the man that sings to her when she has nightmares and teases her about her taste in books.

She almost screams when a warm hand cups her cheek, their thumb brushing right under her eye. There’s a smell of wine and then lips are pressed against her forehead, Oliver dropping back into the content parent.

“Gage is on the phone, dear. He sounded excited.”


	8. Family

Camille walks on eggshells Wednesday morning, too aware of Cameron’s hangover and Oliver’s absence. He’ll be down in the basement for the rest of the day until early evening, which means Cameron will be in charge.

“What time did you two get in last night,” Cameron asks, shuffling into the kitchen. He’s only wearing his sleep pants and a tank top, a few bruises standing out on his thick neck. Looks like he wasn’t picking fights last night after all.

“Five-thirty,” she says. She turns her gaze back to the eggs in the skillet, carefully moving one of them onto a plate before moving the second. Cameron likes his eggs fried and his yokes unbroken, which means steady hands when she’s the one in charge of making breakfast. “Did you enjoy your night out?”

“I would have preferred a nice dinner with my family, but I made do.” He grabs the plate next to the stove and a fork before settling down at the table. “I’d love some coffee.” She moves over to the cupboard, taking down his favorite mug and filling it. He doesn’t take cream or sugar, just a splash of milk and he’s dandy. “Any time now, Cami.”

His back is to her, he can’t see the way her fingers tighten around the mug. He can’t hear the crooning voice of a dead boy ricocheting in her head. _You’re going to be a murderer and you’re going to like how your daddy’s blood feels against your face_. It would be easy to kill him, she can even picture the way his head would look if she caved it in, the blood and coffee mingling on the floor. She’d burn her hand, probably cut it on the broken porcelain, but it would be worth it to see shock and pain in his eyes.

“Here you go, Uncle Cam,” she says instead, setting the cup down near his plate. “The bacon will be ready soon.”

“Where’s Oliver?”

“Basement.” Cameron’s shoulders tense and relax, the muscles shifting and rippling. She always forgets how strong he is despite his height, a thick monstrosity that’s capable of anything. She forgets how strong he is, but she never forgets how scared he makes her.

“A new little toy to keep him occupied, huh? Hopefully this time he comes out of there with something other than another damn lampshade.” She glances at the coffee table through the passthrough, barely able to spot the white bowl set there with the mints inside. It’s all that she has left of Miss Burton. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No, sir.” He grunts, taking a long drink from his mug. “Do you want your bacon crispy?” Another grunt as he shovels a forkful of egg into his mouth. Non-verbal answers are safe, they mean he’s not awake enough yet to care about much of anything.

The door to the basement opens and shuts, Oliver coming into the kitchen in much the same state as Cameron, though he’s absent any hickies. His hair is brushed off his face and he’s sporting a five o’clock shadow, but his eyes are bright and awake.

“Morning, Daddy.”

“Good morning, Cami,” he smiles, patting her cheek. “Did you sleep well?” She’d spent the night curled up against her bedroom door until late, not able to relax until she heard Cameron stumble his way into his bedroom. After that, she’d read until her alarm went off. No school, but there’s a schedule to keep.

“Like the dead,” she lies and Oliver’s smile widens. “Do you want some eggs and bacon?”

“No, I had some croque monsieur earlier.”

“We haven’t had that in ages.”

“Maybe I’ll make some for you tonight. We could have it for supper. When is Gage supposed to come over?” Camille chances a glance over at Cameron, the other man listening intently even if he doesn’t look like it.

“I’m not sure.”

“Okay, well, let me know when you find out. I’d like to ask him about that patient that was brought in yesterday. The one that shot Arden.” He must notice her confusion because he huffs out a laugh. “Arden is the large, bald man that was rude to you.”

“Oh, him. I don’t like him.”

“Nobody does.”

“Who’s Gage,” Cameron asks, turning in his seat. Camille is careful not to meet his stare, looking at a spot near his right ear. “Camille Olivia, I asked you a question.”

“Gage is a friend of mine. He works as a guard at Briarcliff.” Oliver has no problem meeting Cameron’s gaze, daring him to say something. Much like Camille had done just a few moments ago, Cameron tightens his hold on the coffee cup. With as strong as he is, it wouldn’t take much for Cameron to bust Oliver’s head open like a piñata.

“And why would your friend be stopping by to see Camille?”

“Because they’re dating, Cameron. Why the hell are you so concerned?”

“Because my daughter isn’t old enough—”

“Last I checked, Camille belonged to me.” Cameron’s jaw clenches and Camille swears she can hear his teeth grinding together, the tension ratcheting up to new heights. “She’s seventeen, Cameron. I think it’s perfectly reasonable for her to date a boy.”

“She’ll let herself be ruined just like her whore of a mother!”

“Not my girl.” Oliver turns to look at Camille, resting a hand at the nape of her neck. She fights to stay relaxed under his hand, her gaze firmly on her shoes now. “Camille is smart and she knows to wait until she gets a marriage proposal. Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Y-yes, sir,” she says, forcing the words out. Oliver is going back to the basement after this and she’ll have to deal with Cameron by herself. The best thing she can do right now is play dead. Maybe she can get out of a punishment if she faints. Fainting is something other girls do, right? Maybe she should just go back to her horror and put away the bodice rippers.

“Good.” He presses a kiss to her temple and then wanders over to the coffee, pouring himself a cup. “I’ll be back up in a couple of hours. This project is going to be a long one.” Cameron and Camille watch as he leaves the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind him. The quiet lasts until the basement door shuts, then Cameron is turning a heated glare in her direction.

“I think the bacon is almost done.” She tries to get back to the stove and the popping grease, but Cameron is faster and has her pinned to the wall by her throat in what feels like seconds. She knows better than to say anything, just squeezing her eyes closed and waiting.

“How long have you been seeing this boy,” he hisses, breath sour as it washes over her face.

“Two and a half months.” Cameron lets out a low growl and she thinks again of the Potter boy, the way he’d growled out promises of blood and writhed against his restraints. Jude had lashed out at him, wild in her anger, and Camille wishes she had that strength.

“You’re too young for boys.” He pulls her away from the wall only to slam her against it again, her head bouncing off the wood paneling. A high-pitched ringing starts in her ears, further dazing her as she’s slammed against the wall once more. _Is this how Kit felt when the aliens took Alma? Did his head throb and his fingers itch to draw blood?_ “You’re just a kid!”

“‘m seventeen,” she mumbles. The words come out slurred and her head gives another nasty throb of pain. Even with the growing concussion, she knows she’s made a mistake. When Cameron gets like this, you don’t talk back. You don’t _correct_ him.

“I think it’s time for a reminder of just who’s in charge here. Go to your room.” She sags when he releases her, managing two steps by herself before his hand is in her hair. He drags her to her room with little care to whether she can match his pace, throwing her onto her bed. “Lie still.”

She can hear the metal-on-metal of his belt buckle being undone, the quiet _shh_ of leather being pulled through the loops and the snap when he pulls the belt taut. Her fingers dig into the comforter like they do every time, body jerking with the first two blows and then sagging into the mattress with the next fifteen. One for each year she’s been alive, a stinging reminder of why she can’t wait to leave.

He comes around the bed when he’s finished this time, crouching down so he can see the tears glittering on her cheeks and the hate in her eyes. He’s smiling contentedly, reaching out to brush the moisture off her face and then running his hand over her hair like she’s a dog that’s learned a new trick.

She wants to sink her teeth into that hand and make him regret ever hurting her.

“I’ve been so patient with you, sweetheart,” he says, voice a low murmur. “When will you just learn to obey?” _When hell freezes over_. “No matter, I’ll always be here to help you learn.” She doesn’t have the energy to glare at him, let alone _bite_ him, so she settles with closing her eyes and ignoring him. “I don’t think you should have any friends over tonight. When Gage shows up, tell him you’re grounded.”

Cameron rises to his full height and stalks out of the room, slipping the belt back on.

It’s almost five when the doorbell rings, an hour after her father screamed at the phone and thirty minutes after Cameron threatened to burn all of Camille’s books if her attitude didn’t improve. Camille opens the door, smiling when she finds Gage on the other side with a bouquet of tulips.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” she says, pleasantly shocked.

“I was able to get off in time after all.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, stealing a kiss and pressing the flowers into her hand. “Mom’s got the good china out and she told me to make sure I take the time to get flowers.”

“Your mom’s a smart woman.”

“Smartest person in my house.” He grins and it’s so bright that she can’t help but return it, craving the warmth that pulses through him. “Why don’t you grab a coat to fight the cold and then we can head out if your dad’s still okay with it.”

“Right, yeah. That sounds great.” He follows her into the living room, taking a mint from the bowl without noticing what the bowl is made of. “I’ll be right back.” She opens the door that leads into the hall, sticking close to the wall as she makes her way to her bedroom. Across the hall, she can hear Cameron’s TV playing and she hopes that he won’t notice anything amiss until she’s already gone.

Her cardigan is draped over her desk chair, a stark white that goes nicely with the pale peach of her dress and the diamond studded earrings she’s wearing. She pulls it on before making her way back to the living room, knocking lightly on the basement door. It opens a couple of minutes later, Oliver popping his head out. His hair is mussed and sticking to his face, sweat beading on his upper lip.

“What is it, Cami?”

“Gage is here. You said you wanted to talk to him about Briarcliff.” His eyes light up and he comes fully into the room, shutting the door behind him. Gage is sitting on the couch when Oliver spots him, sitting near the lamp that Cameron hates. He’s still chewing on mints, completely at ease.

“Good evening, Gage.” Gage stands when he’s addressed, shaking hands with Oliver. “Good to see you again.”

“Good to see you too, sir,” Gage says without a trace of nervousness. “You have a beautiful house.”

“That’s good to hear. Camille, why don’t you go find a vase for those tulips? I think there’s one under the kitchen sink.” She takes the cue to leave, sparing a smile for Gage as she goes. The vase isn’t very large, but it’ll work until she can buy a new one and the tulips look beautiful on the kitchen table. When she comes back into the living room, Cameron’s joined the men and he’s wagging a finger in Gage’s direction.

“Don’t worry, Mister Miller, I was raised not to take advantage of girls. We frown on that sort of thing in my family.” Gage’s smile has dropped away at some point, staring at Cameron like he’s the scum of the earth. Camille may or may not fall a little more in love with him in that instant. “You ready, Camille?”

“More than ready,” Camille nods. She loops her arm through his and they walk outside without another word from Cameron. He opens the door for her, having to help her into the truck before circling around to the driver’s side. The bench seat is old, cracked leather, the dash is partly held together using tape, and the gearshift is covered by an old tennis ball. All of that aside, the engine purrs to life and the radio is playing the new Lesley Gore song that seems to be everywhere.

“So, how was your day?” He glances at the red welt barely visible between her shoulder blades, poking up past the edge of her dress. The question he really wants the answer to is unasked, _How hard did he hit you?_

“Not too awful.” _It could have been worse_. “How about you? Anything exciting happen today?”

“Well, let’s see…. A lady abandoned her daughter for the afternoon until Jude forced her to come get her and the scuttlebutt goin’ around is that Jude is out of a job. I’m not sure if that’s the truth or not, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Her and the Monsignor haven’t exactly gotten along these past few weeks.” Gage shrugs a shoulder, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he drives. The roads are slick, but not quite icy yet, the old truck handling them just fine. “Why he’d get rid of Jude instead of Arden, I’ve got no idea.”

“Is the doctor as bad as everyone says?” She’d only met him the one time, but the flashes of dark things she’d seen in his mind left an impression. “I mean, I know he’s rude but that’s about all.” Gage looks over at her as they reach a stop sign, his smile dimming.

“I’m pretty sure he’s killing off patients for his own sick amusement.” She thinks of the creatures she’d seen in Arden’s mind, distorted things covered in tumors and hunched over.

“I’m pretty sure you’re right.”

“You know, there’s an apartment over the space I’m renting.” The abrupt subject change throws her for a loop, but she adjusts.

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna move in there while I fix the old place up. You’d love it, Cami. Downstairs is all exposed brick and the kitchen has this old oven meant just for bread, and I’m gonna get these old café tables to put out on the patio for warm weather. Upstairs is mostly drywall, but there’s two bedrooms and a pretty big bathroom.”

“No kitchen?”

“It’s more a kitchenette. There’s a sink and a stove, but that’s basically it.” He shrugs again, but he’s excited and nervous and the combination makes her want to kiss him. Since no one’s around to object, she does just that. His stubble tickles her lips and she can’t hold back a bubbly giggle, Gage grinning in response. “You have a really pretty laugh.”

“You won’t think that when I start snorting uncontrollably, trust me.”

“And how does one go about making you do that?”

“Oh, I’ve got this spot on my foot that— Wait, why do you want to know?” Her eyes widen and she shakes her head quickly. “Touch my feet, Gage Kincaid, and I’ll kick you in the nose.” He laughs outright, a wonderful sound that makes her think of spring mornings and sunlight. “Tell me more about your apartment.” She slides across the seat, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Well the carpet is God awful, it’s this bright orange that needs to be burned. I’m gonna replace it with a nice gray carpet that I found at Lowe’s. Mom says that gray is a nice color since it goes with anything.”

“She’s right. The carpet in all my bedrooms have been gray so that it wouldn’t clash with whatever color I chose for the walls.”

“What color are your walls right now?”

“Yellow.”

“Seriously? Isn’t that a little bright?”

“Well, what color are yours?”

“Wood.” She laughs again, flicking her eyes up to take in the smooth curve of his jaw. “Mom says that’s the only thing she regrets about the house we live in. All that wood gets boring after a while, you know. Pops says he’s just glad she can’t make him repaint the walls every few years.”

“I’m sure.”

“How often do you repaint and reorganize?”

“Once in a blue moon. I pretty much like things to stay where I put them.”

“Same here. I think the only rearranging I’ve even done in my room was moving my comics from my bookshelves to a tote under my bed.” She quirks up a brow and he smiles. “I had to make room for textbooks and the summer reading lists I got sent home with every year. Turns out teachers think Jane Austen is more important than Batman.”

“Scandalous.”

“Blasphemous.” They pull into the driveway of a nice house, only one-story with a small patio complete with porch swing, and two empty flowerbeds on either side of the wide, stone steps. “Welp, this is it. You sure you wanna meet my parents? We could always go to a diner and then hit the movies.”

“No, I wanna see which parent you take after more.”

“My dad. Well, except for my attitude, that’s all my mom. I got my dad’s hair and eyes, though.” He nods along as he lists each thing, then seems to remember the ignition’s been cut and it’s winter. “Alright, let’s go.” She slides out on his side, letting him twine their fingers together as they make their way to the front door.

The inside of the Kincaid house is warm and homey, family pictures hanging on most of the walls, a tapestry depicting the Last Supper pinned above the couch, two armchairs angled towards the television. Across from the door and slightly to the right is another door that opens to a short hall, the left branching off into bedrooms and a bathroom while the right opened into a nice kitchen.

“Gage, is that you,” a woman calls from somewhere deeper in the house.

“Yeah, Mama! I brought Camille with me, so be nice!”

“I’m always nice!” She emerges from the hall, dressed in a dark red sweater and jeans, her riotous curls falling across her shoulders. Gage often talked about his parents, but he forgot to mention how beautiful his mother is. She’s got Gage’s wide smile and a twinkle in her eyes, a spark of rebellion that tells everyone not to mess with her. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Camille. Gage won’t shut up about you.” She strides across the room and pulls Camille into a tight hug, the teen melting into it with a sigh. “I’m Erin and Jackson’s the one in the kitchen.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Kincaid.”

“ _Erin_ , please. Don’t make me feel any older than I already am.” She pulls back to study Camille, brushing a hand over her hair. Oliver makes the same gesture seem demeaning, like she’s a dog that’s done something good, but Erin Kincaid somehow manages to make the gesture soothing. “Honey, say hi to Camille!”

“Hi, Camille,” a man says, voice floating in from the kitchen. It’s followed by a muffled thud and a growled curse, Erin rolling her eyes. “I’m okay!” Camille looks to Gage, expecting more than simple exasperation.

“Don’t worry,” Gage promises. “Pops just dropped the flour on his foot again. It’s a nightly occurrence.” He winks and she suddenly understands that feeling described in cheesy romance books, the part where the heroine’s knees go weak and she sinks into the dashing man’s arms. She’s officially checked that box.

“Gage, can you get the burgers going? I think I broke my toe!” The three of them hurry into the kitchen, Camille expecting some huge mess of flour and blood. Instead, she sees a middle-aged man jumping around on one foot while holding the other and trying to look at his big toe without toppling headfirst into the nearby trashcan. “Baby, look! It’s turning red!”

“Your toe stays red at this point,” Erin says. She guides him over to a chair, kneeling in front of him to poke and prod at the swollen toe. “Not broken.”

“How?”

“The flour barely weighs anything, dear.” Gage just shakes his head as he sets the flour-coated burgers in the frying pan, tending to them while Erin and Jackson fuss in the background. There’s no yelling or passive-aggressive threats, no one using Camille or Gage as leverage. It’s weird, but…. Nice.

“How are you at cutting onions,” Gage asks, looking over at her. He can flip burgers without looking and it’s far more attractive than it probably should be. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hot if she didn’t love food so much.

“Not bad,” she says.

“Cutting board in the cabinet to your right, knives are in the drawer above that, and onions are in the fridge.” She gathers everything and sets to work, making sure to keep her slices thin so the onion will cook faster in the pan. Behind her, she can hear Jackson muttering something about a free hospital visit if he really does break his toe.

“Is he serious?”

“Oh yeah, we’re regulars at the ER. Next visit is on Doctor Stevens.” There’s no lie in his voice, a pure earnestness that makes her laugh. “Just wait until you see my pops julienne a carrot. He almost cut off his finger last week.”

“Which is why he isn’t allowed to use knives for a month,” Erin puts in. “He’s grounded.” Jackson lets out a whine, then yelps when Erin pokes at his toe. “Don’t be such a baby.”

“Mama, do we have any brown gravy? The kind in the package?”

“I’ll do you one better.” She rises and crosses over to the fridge, pulling out a bowl covered in saran wrap. “I made some gravy this morning when I couldn’t sleep.” Camille raises her brows and Erin shrugs. “It’s a family thing. Stressed out or can’t sleep means you should find something to do in the kitchen. During Gage’s senior year of high school he made seventy cakes.”

“I really like cake.” He’s blushing, head ducked as he continues flipping the burgers. “Everyone likes cake, cake is good.” He takes the bowl of gravy from his mom, pouring most of it over the burgers before adding the onion slices and turning down the heat to a low simmer. “Burgers will be ready in ten minutes.”

“I’ll start the potatoes. Why don’t you take Camille on a tour?”

“Come on, I’ll show you my room.” Gage takes her hand and leads her down a narrow hall to the last door on the left. His bedroom isn’t as big as Camille’s, but it’s covered in pictures and trophies, his desk lined with recipe books and pens. His bed takes up most of the space, a Queen with soft flannel sheets and blue covers. He has a record player tucked into his closet, the bottom of the closet holding pillows and blankets.

“What’s with that,” she asks, nodding towards the closet.

“Sometimes you need to curl up somewhere dark and listen to music. Where do you do it?”

“Under my bed.”

“My bedframe is too close to the ground for me to do that.” He curls up in the closet, gesturing for her to join him. The nest is soft, mostly made up of silk and worn cotton, just enough space for them to lay on their sides together. He has an arm across her middle, the fingers rubbing softly against her belly. “Is this okay?”

“It’s perfect.” They lay like that for what seems like hours, soaking up each other’s warmth and dozing until Erin calls for them to eat. Getting out of the closet isn’t exactly graceful, but Camille manages to do it without showing off her underwear and Gage simply rolls like a log. “Do you guys always eat together,” she asks as they head back to the kitchen.

“Once a week for sure. My work schedule is a little chaotic lately and Mom’s a lawyer, so she’s works late. How about you?”

“Every night at five-thirty. Any later and Cameron tends to throw a fit.” The past two months have thrown that schedule into disarray and Cameron’s growing more and more angry about it. Now that the job at the asylum is finished, things should settle back into normalcy.

Erin and Jackson are already sitting when the other two make it into the kitchen, laughing over something. There’s obvious love in their eyes, the way they move around each other and let their caresses linger. Camille wants something like that one day. Looking over at Gage, she thinks she might have found it.

Dinner passes smoothly, filled with lively conversation and laughter that bubbles out of Kincaids without hesitation. Camille feels at home and safe, drags the experience out for as long as she can. Still, it’s only three hours later that she’s back in Gage’s truck and headed home.

“I had fun,” she says, snuggled up against his side as he drives. “Your parents are so sweet and _funny_. I know you come by it naturally now.” He laughs, his free arm around her shoulders and his fingers trailing up and down her arm in a slow caress. “Do you think they liked me?”

“Trust me, you’d know if they didn’t. I dated this one girl when I was sixteen and they wouldn’t even let her in the kitchen. She didn’t last long.”

“Sounds like something my dad would pull.” She thinks of Oliver’s hard stare when he explained what sex was, that it could cause a number of complications and should only be done when she’s an adult. Mid-to-late twenties had been his goal and he’d blushed a bright red when he showed her how condoms worked just in case. He hadn’t been able to look her in the eye for a week after that. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Cami. To the moon and back.” They fall into an easy quiet, the radio playing softly. It’s a Dion DiMucci song, the lyrics a riot of energy and all about wandering. Camille likes it, but Earth Angel will always be her favorite.

He pulls up to the curb outside her house a while later, the living room lights on and a lone figure wandering around. The song seems to fit the person, the narrow silhouette leading her to believe it’s Oliver. _Oh, well, I roam from town to town_ , Dion sings, _I go through life without a care and I'm as happy as a clown_.

“Well,” Camille sighs,” this is me. I had a great time tonight.” Gage smiles as he leans his head down to kiss her. Camille’s found that she quite likes being kissed. Gage is always so gentle and patient, barely brushing his tongue over her lips and never demanding she deepen it. Gage is safety, he’s _home_.

“Remember how I said my bakery has an apartment above it?”

“Yeah.”

“How would you feel about moving in with me? It won’t be ready until the end of this school year anyway and you gotta get away from Cameron or else he’s gonna kill you.” The words come out in a rush, nearly sounding manic as his nerves get the best of him. She has to sit there a moment to process everything, feeling numb with shock. When she meets his gaze, she realizes the answer is obvious.

“I’d love to move in with you, Gage.”


	9. Lana

**2012**

Boston is wildly different from New Orleans, but it’s got a similar vibe to it of old magic simmering under concrete and asphalt. As it is, Erika is barely awake and definitely not in the mood to go shopping with Cordelia. “Do we have to,” she whines, letting Cordelia drag her out of the hotel. “I already have enough clothes.”

“Don’t you want to see the city?” She’s brimming with energy and Erika kind of despises her for a moment. Witch or not, no one should be this happy when the sun is still struggling to break through the fog.

“Sure, when it’s nighttime and I can sneak into a bar or something.”

“You might run into someone famous.”

“In Boston? What, you expect Emma Swan to come skidding around the corner with the villain of the week chasing after her?” Cordelia scowls, pressing a cup of coffee into Erika’s hand once they’re outside. “There, I’ve seen the city. Can I go back to bed now?”

“No.” Cordelia drags her down the street, content to walk instead of hailing a cab like a normal person. “Why aren’t you more excited? This is the city your Nana grew up in.”

“She spent, like, a year and a half here before her and her husband moved to Louisiana, Delia. They fled there because they committed a murder.”

“They did not.”

“Totally did. Dad told me all about it. Nana Kincaid bludgeoned him to death and then fucked off to Louisiana before the cops could connect the dots.” Cordelia scoffs, but she’s smiling and it makes Erika feel settled. Cordelia has always felt like home to her. “Why did I even have to come with you?”

“Because it’s good for you to travel. Besides, my mom is easier to face when I have backup.”

“Meaning you want me to run my mouth until she gets fed up and gives you the funding you need.”

“Exactly.” Erika grins and shakes her head, letting Cordelia get a few feet ahead of her. It’s way too early to be power walking down the street and Cordelia seems to understand that. She stops at a bench up ahead, waiting for the bus and waving for Erika to hurry up.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Erika grumbles, shoes scuffing the sidewalk. She’s halfway to the bus stop when a man comes running out of an office building, his clothes hanging off him and droplets of blood caught in his beard. He’s wild-eyed, but still comes to a screeching halt in front of her. “You okay, buddy?”

“What,” he asks. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just…. It’s nothing.” She tilts her head to the side, giving him a long once-over and coming up entirely unimpressed with what she finds. She can see flecks of black behind his eyes, flashes of what her Nana used to call balloons that show emotions and hide the thoughts.

 _He’s a killer_ , a voice whispers, not belonging to her. _He’s family_. Erika shakes it off and sends the man a tight smile before running to catch up with Cordelia. Later that night, the news talks about a double murder that had taken place in an office building, a therapist and her patient found with pieces missing just like the married couple the week before.

Erika stays in the hotel for the rest of the visit.

**1964**

Camille moves almost silently through the house on Christmas Eve, armed with a baseball bat she pilfered from Oliver’s room. He doesn’t believe in guns but he also doesn’t want to be empty-handed if someone ever breaks into the house. The wood is firm in her hands, a balanced weight she’s comfortable with.

She pauses outside of Cameron’s room, able to hear quiet moans and grunts to mean he’s distracted, then continues forward. The door to the basement is wide open and she can hear Lana’s pleas that are nearly drowned out by Oliver’s rambling. He’s going to kill her, Camille saw it plainly in his mind at dinner. He’s going to kill Lana and Camille has to stop him.

His back is to her when she gets down the steps, a syringe in his hand half-filled with something clear. He doses Camille with it on the bad nights when the nightmares won’t leave her alone. It makes her mind go blank, filled with cotton.

“Please, don’t,” Lana is whimpering, cheeks wet with tears. She’s lost weight in the few days she’s been here, cheeks gaunt and the bones in her wrists too visible. “Please, Oliver, please….”

Camille edges closer, meeting Lana’s stare as she raises the bat. It cracks against Oliver’s skull hard, driving him to his knees. The syringe falls from numb fingers and she picks it up before he can turn, driving the needle into the meat of his shoulder and depressing the plunger. Oliver drops soon after, eyes fluttering closed without ever seeing who had come to Lana’s rescue.

“You have to go,” Camille says, digging the keys out of Oliver’s pocket and tossing them to Lana. “This dose is enough to knock him out for a couple of hours, but that’s all.”

“Why are you helping me,” Lana asks. Her hands are shaking so bad that she can barely unlock the shackle around her ankle, wincing as she pulls it away. The skin is raw and bloody, but it’ll heal.

“Because I couldn’t save Miss Burton from him.” Camille does her best to shrug off the guilt. “You gotta go convince the cops that Kit is innocent.” She’d tried, but Oliver kept her dosed and in bed until he was finished. He’d handed her a bowl made from Miss Burton’s skull and offered her a mint the day after.

“Come with me.”

“I can’t. I have to be here when he wakes up or he’ll get angry.” She doesn’t want to know what her punishment will be for this. “Now, go! Come on!” She takes Lana by the arm, helping her up the concrete steps and into the living room. The front door is unlocked already and Camille throws it open, ushering Lana outside. “Go straight to the police.”

“I can’t just leave you here. He’ll kill you.”

“Oliver doesn’t hurt me.” Deeper in the house, a door opens and Cameron shuffles out. She can hear the quiet slide of his slippers against the carpet. “Go, Lana. Get the cops.” She shuts the door and locks it before throwing herself behind the couch on all fours. The door to the hallway opens a moment later and Cameron looks around, eyes half-lidded. He’s well-sated and loose-limbed, not the most observant as he goes to the kitchen for a snack. She waits until she hears the fridge open to make a break for her room, slipping past the half-opened hallway door.

Her bedroom is lit only by the moonlight shining in past the gossamer curtains, a breeze cooling the room. She shuts her door as quietly as she can, keeping her ear pressed against it. There are footsteps out in the hall, the door closing before the footsteps start up again. They pause outside her room and she can hear fingernails scratch against the wood.

“Sleep tight, Princess,” Cameron says, tapping once. “Tomorrow, if you’re lucky, you get a present.” The doorknob jiggles and she jumps backward, throwing herself in bed. The door opens right as she closes her eyes, Cameron coming over to the bed. “What are you dreaming of?” His hand is warm as it cups her cheek, fingers trailing along her jaw before drawing away. There are more footsteps and then her bedroom door is shut tight, Cameron retiring to his room for the rest of the night. He never noticed the open basement door or the flush to her cheeks, she’s safe for now.

She dozes off at some point during the night, waking up to find Oliver standing over her. His eyes burn with fury, lips pressed tightly together as he glares down at her. “Daddy?”

“What happened last night,” he growls. She furrows her brows, feigning ignorance. “What did you do, little girl?”

“I don’t know what—”

“Don’t lie to me!” His shout makes her flinch away, face buried in a pillow to avoid any hits. There are no blows, though, never from Oliver. He’s her protector, he keeps her safe from the belt. “I know it was you, sweetheart. I just want to know why you would hurt me like this.”

“You were going to kill Lana,” she rasps out. The fury dims as he sits on the edge of her bed, running a hand over her hair. She thinks he might pull at first, but he doesn’t. He isn’t Cameron. She chances a look up at him again, the hard lines fading away to form the familiar face of her dad.

“Lana wasn’t right for us.”

“She’d be a good grandma.” He looks surprised, hand pausing its motions as he studies her. She does the same, digging through the catalogues of childhood trauma he’s got stored away in neat files. He needs a mom, needs the stability and love they offer. “If you killed her, then I’d never have one.”

“You think she was the right one?” Camille dips her head in a cautious nod, watching for any sign of the monster that lurks in his mind. She should be safe for now if she keeps playing her cards right. “It’s too late now. You let her go.”

“So we’ll find someone new.” _Lana should have reached the cops by now, so why aren’t they here?_ “Someone even better.” Oliver nods, brushing the thick hair off Camille’s face.

“You’re absolutely right, Cami.” He nods again, like he’s reassuring himself about something before he gets up. “I’ll bring your breakfast in once it’s ready.” Her brows furrow again, but he’s gone before she can ask anything. Why wouldn’t she be in the kitchen with him and Cameron? They always have breakfast together and Christmas is extra special since it means hot chocolate spiked with rum.

She throws the comforter aside and sits up, a metallic clank and the sudden stop of her right leg making her pause. There’s a manacle around her ankle, the same one she’d freed Lana from last night. It’s snug and the skin around it is tender, the other end locked around the metal frame of her bed.

“Daddy,” she calls, an edge of panic in her voice. “Daddy, why am I locked up?” She doesn’t get an answer, but she can hear the radio in the kitchen getting flicked on. The volume is cranked up until she can barely hear herself think. “Daddy, please! I’m sorry! Please!”

Camille spends all of Christmas tethered to her bed, only released to go the bathroom. Oliver brings her food and drink and he sits by her bed and reads to her until it starts to get dark out. In fact, it’s not until Gage shows up at nine that the chain is undone once and for all and a robe is draped around her shoulders.

She moves stiffly, muscles protesting each step until she drops onto the couch beside her boyfriend. Gage looks as exhausted as she feels, a spot of blood on the cuff of his sleeve. He’s still in his guard uniform, his pallor matching the dark gray of it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Grace is dead,” he says, blue eyes staring down at his hands. They’re tinted pink and there’s more blood crusted under his nails. “Kit Walker snuck back in to take her away and Frank tried to shoot him…. It was the order, you know. The cops told us to shoot on sight after he beat his lawyer half to death, so Frank shot. Grace s-stepped in the way.”

“Oh my God….”

“One of the sisters got her throat tore out by this other thing that Kit killed. It was like something from those Universal movies, the ones with the monsters.” He shakes his head, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. “We got Kit locked down again, he’s in a bed near Lana.”

“Lana,” Oliver asks, coming into the room. He’s got two mugs in his hands, handing them off to the teenagers. “What did Lana do?”

“She broke out somehow. Stayed gone for a couple days before she got in a car crash and the cops brought her back to us.” Gage takes a long pull from the spiked cocoa, hissing at the burn. “And to top it all off, Sister Jude snuck into the asylum and murdered Frank before taking one of the patients hostage in her old office.” The tears become a flood and he collapses against Camille with a choked sob, clutching at her like she’s the only comfort he can think of. “He’s dead, Cami.”

“Why don’t you stay here tonight, Gage? You aren’t in any condition to be driving.” He moves over to the passthrough where the landline is, perusing the phonebook until he finds Erin’s number. The conversation is a brief one and then Oliver is striding over to the coatrack.

“Where are you going,” Camille asks.

“To check on Kit’s wellbeing. He may not technically be my patient anymore, but we still have a relationship.” She knows why he’s going back, recognizes the signs of his latest spiral. Camille can’t move to follow him, not when Gage is falling to pieces like this. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, sweetheart. Put Gage in the guest room.”

 ** _She isn’t getting away this time_**.

 _She’ll always beat men like you, Oliver_.


	10. Newfound Freedom

**1947**

Allison Miller will always remember the day her baby is born. She’ll remember the searing pain and the haze of drugs, the way her husband had nearly fainted when she pushed the little girl into the world with an agonized cry fit for daytime soap operas. She’ll remember these things at first because giving birth is a memorable experience, but she’ll remember them later because memories are all she’ll have.

Her labor isn’t exactly a long one, just over six hours and then she’s allowed to sleep the drugs off. When she comes to, her husband is holding the little girl in his arms and moonlight is bathing them both in a silver glow. She’ll remember this too, a stark contrast to how he’ll react later on when she’s too tired to starch his collars after staying up with the baby most of the night.

For now, though, all is right in her world. She’s got a child that she already loves more than anything, a husband that buys her expensive gifts, and enough pain medication still in her system to make her feel like she’s floating on a cloud. In this instant, there’s nothing more Allison could possibly want.

“Is it a girl,” she asks, voice rough with sleep. Her husband turns and gives her the same dashing smile she fell in love with (the same dashing smile he gives her along with a piece of jewelry after a night of beating her).

“Yeah, it’s a girl.” He brings her over for Allison to see, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Meet Camille Olivia Miller.” She reaches out to trace the baby’s perky nose with one finger, reveling in the tiny huff of breath Camille lets out. They’d spent ages arguing over baby names and he goes and plucks the perfect one out of the air on the day she’s born.

“That’s a beautiful name. Can I hold her?” His smile fades slowly, blue eyes holding a warning. Even with her head stuffed full of cotton, she knows to heed such a thing. Warnings are rare and to be obeyed.

“I don’t think you’re quite ready for that yet. She’s delicate, you know.”

“I’m not going to drop her.”

“I said no.” He gives her a hard look, the warning slowly starting to transform into a full-on threat. “Don’t think that just because you’re in the hospital you don’t have to listen to me, Alli.” Her eyes drop to his belt, knowing all too well how the expensive leather feels snapping across her back.

“Yes, sir.” _If he ever hurts my baby, I’m gone_ , she swears to herself. _I’ll move back to Maine with my parents and he’ll never see her again_.

**1964**

It’s two days later when Oliver returns, his clothes dirty and torn in places and his glasses tucked in his breast pocket. He goes straight to the bathroom, the shower starting and a low hum filling the house. Even in the living room, she can hear him humming the words to Runaround Sue. He’s in a good mood and Camille is worried. Cameron arches a brow and turns to look at Camille, shrugging.

“Sounds like he’s in a good mood,” Cameron says, flipping through the Sears catalogue. “Surprising considering he spent all of Christmas Eve and Christmas destroying his projects.” No more lampshades made of human skin or mint bowls made of skulls, nothing the police would find suspicious.

“Maybe he got good news.”

“Or laid.” It’s Camille’s turn to arch her brows this time and Cameron grins. “You’d be amazed what getting laid does to a man. All stress melts away.”

“Funny, you always get really grumpy.”

“That would be the hangover, dear.” The shower cuts off and Oliver joins them shortly after, dressed in a pressed suit and pinning his tie in place as he sits at the table. “Get him some coffee.” Camille obeys without stopping to think about it, still sore from the beating before Christmas. “Where have you been?”

“Tied up at Briarcliff.”

“Too busy to use a phone?”

“No, I mean I was literally tied up. Lana and Kit ambushed me and then locked me in a storage room down the hall from my old office.” He takes the mug from Camille with a smile, patting her hand when she sits down again. “A nun found me and let me out this morning, said she’d love to have me on the staff permanently.”

“Which nun,” Camille asks.

“The one that fainted when Jed Potter died.”

“I wasn’t there when that happened.”

“Uh, the blonde one, pretty. She always hung around Jude.” Camille barely remembers the one he’s talking about, a fringe of bangs that hang in her eyes, a little extra pep in her step. She’s probably the one that witnessed Jude stabbing Leigh Emerson in the throat. “Anyway, that’s where I’m going after breakfast.”

“Do you want me to put lunch together for you?”

“For both of us.” Oliver smiles and he takes her hand in his on the table, squeezing too tight. “After all, you’re my good luck charm.”

“School starts again on Monday—”

“I had a word with your principal before Christmas break, you’ve got enough credits to graduate already. Seems doubling your workload last year did better than I originally thought. He’ll have your diploma ready by Monday and we’ll pick it up on the way to work.” Camille doesn’t know what to say to that, always picturing herself walking across a stage to get her diploma. Now she’ll be lucky if Oliver even lets her go into the office to pick it up.

“But—”

“Go get dressed, Cami. You can’t wear pajamas to work.” She gets up slowly, still processing everything as she heads to her room. Oliver’s too smug about that job at Briarcliff for Lana and Kit to be dead. He’ll want to lord this over them as some form of psychological warfare or something. If they’re still alive, then there’s still a chance to get Oliver locked up before he can hurt anyone else.

“This would be so much easier if I completely hated him.” _Damn emotions clouding all her judgements_. Why couldn’t she be a sociopath like the rest of her damn family?

“Hurry up, Cami! We need to get going.” She grumbles under her breath as she gets her dress out of the closet, a somber gray number that stops at her knees and goes well with the white flats she pulls on. She runs a brush through her hair and calls it good, striding out into the living room. “That looks nice. When did you get it?”

“Christmas present from Cameron.”

“It looks great on her, right,” Cameron says, coming into the living room with his mug of coffee. “She looks better in pink, but gray works better with accessories.” The way he talks about her, like she’s a doll and not a real person, rankles. She wants to dump his coffee on his head and watch him scream, but that would be a waste of good coffee.

“It’s nice,” Oliver agrees. He’s got their lunch in one hand and uses the other to hold open the front door. “Come on, Camille. Let’s get going.” She follows him reluctantly, getting in the front seat and fiddling with the radio as he starts to drive. She settles on Drifters song, nodding along to it.

 _“I wanna know, did she love me,”_ she sings along softly. _“Did she really love me? Was she just playing me for a fool?”_

“Jesus, that song’s been overplayed.” Oliver shuts the radio off, not seeming to notice the glare she shoots his way. She doesn’t ask for much, just that she’s able to listen to whatever music she wants and that she can read Poe’s works. He’s never had a problem with it before, so why now?

“I like that song.” She goes to turn the radio on again, but he slaps her hand away from the dial.

“I’d rather not have music this morning. Do you have a problem with that?” Camille ducks her head at his stern tone, leaning it against the window. “I asked you a question, Camille.”

“No, sir, I don’t have a problem with it.” It’s safer to just play along when he’s like this. They pass the rest of the drive in silence, an awkward thing that she does her best to ignore.

They park in their usual spot when they reach Briarcliff, wandering up the steep slope and walking inside like they own the place. Oliver hands his briefcase off to an orderly named Carl, asking him to take it to his office on the second floor. Carl doesn’t look too happy about it, but he does it anyway.

“Where’s Lana?” Camille closes her eyes to focus, drowning out unimportant thoughts until she hones in on that Frost poem Lana loves so much.

“Common room.” Oliver nods sharply, pulling her after him into the room. It’s flooded with sunlight, the windows clean and a jukebox taking the place of the old record player. Dominique has been replaced by Jay Hawkins. Lana and Kit are sitting together on a couch in the back of the room, both glancing up with apprehension as Oliver stalks over to them. He pushes Camille towards the couch and takes the armchair for himself, too smug for words.

“Well, well, isn’t this pleasant? The four of us sitting around like civilized people?” Lana’s eyes drop to the ash tray on the table between them, a heavy thing that would cave Oliver’s skull in easy. Oliver drags it out of her reach, stamping his cigarette out in it.

“Smart move,” Lana says coldly. “I was five seconds from beating you over the head with it.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that.” He leans back in his seat, completely at ease with guards so near. He can torture these people all he wants, but they can’t lay a finger on him. “You’re plucky, Lana. It’s something I hope you pass on to our son.” Camille’s jaw drops and she turns to look at Lana, the other woman digging her nails into he couch. Kit looks just as shocked as Camille, looking between Oliver and Lana. “Our baby’s strong and he’s the only reason you’re still alive right now.”

“What about after he’s born? You gonna murder me like you did all those other women?”

“Don’t worry, I’m going to keep you around for a year to breastfeed him. After that, well….” He turns hard eyes on Camille, like he’s daring her to argue with what he’s about to say. “My daughter will make an excellent mother figure.” Camille swallows hard at that, thinking back to Gage’s offer. How can she leave knowing that Oliver’s screwing up another kid?

“You are one sick twist,” Kit sneers.

“And you’re a wanted man. I wonder how much reward money they’re offering.”

“Turn me in, see if I care.”

“And let you take my taped confession with you to the police? Not a chance.” Oliver stands, smirking down at the other three. “Don’t worry, Kit. We can discuss that and any other issues you have when we resume your treatment this afternoon. After all, what kind of therapist would I be if I didn’t tend to all my patients here?” He strides out of the room, leaving Camille in his dust.

“How the hell are we supposed to deal with him? ‘Cause I vote that we just toss him out a window. Who’s with me?” Camille starts to raise her hand, but Lana grasps onto her wrist to pull her arm down.

“We gotta be smart about this,” Lana says. “Let’s start with getting some information.”

“How are you gonna get information on him when you’re stuck in here,” Camille asks. Kit and Lana turn to look at her in unison, a shockingly creepy movement that makes her want to scoot away. “Oh, right. Through his kid. Where do you want me to start?”

“The beginning.”

It’s late afternoon when Camille finishes and she’s grateful for Gage appearing and waving her over to him. They move out into the lobby, Gage’s hand warm where it grasps her own. He doesn’t squeeze too tight like her dad and Cameron; he holds her like he’s afraid she’ll break.

“I forgot to give you your Christmas present.”

“Gage, you don’t need to give me anything.”

“Of course I do.” He pulls a small box out of his pocket, flicking it open to reveal a slim gold band with three diamond chips set into it. “Consider this a promise, Camille. A promise that I’ll always be there when you need me, I’ll always protect you. I _love_ you.”

“I love you too,” she says around a hitched breath, throwing her arms around him. “I love you so much, Gage. You have no idea.” His arms go around her and he holds her close, his heart beating quickly under her ear. She wants to tell him everything, tell him about the things her father has done and is planning to do, but the moment is shattered when a body collides with the ground behind them. They turn to find Sister Mary Eunice lying on the floor, blood pooling beneath her. There’s a flash of yellow in her eyes, a brief shadow passing over her face, and then she’s gone.

Above them, Monsignor Howard crosses himself and walks away.

“It’s very simple,” Oliver says a week later. “Get me the tape of my confession and I’ll get you your baby back.” Two steps behind him and Kit, Camille feels safe enough to roll her eyes. Only Oliver Thredson would use a baby as a bargaining chip. He holds the door of the common room open for Camille to pass through, putting her ahead of him and Kit now.

“I hand that tape over to you and you’ll make sure I fry,” Kit points out. Camille looks up as she reaches the stairs, catching Lana’s eye. She’s dressed in street clothes, hair hidden under a scarf and a purse looped over her shoulder. _Are you leaving?_

 ** _Stall him_**. Kit’s eyes flick up as well, seeming the grasp what’s happening without any magical powers.

“Get me that tape,” Oliver insists, dropping his voice,” and I’ll make sure your son never knows how awful the system is. Once the tape is destroyed, I’ll make sure you and Grace can leave this place to raise him.” Lana starts down the stairs, head turned slightly away to better hide who she is. Oliver gets onto the first step before Camille latches onto his arm and turns him to face her.

“Can I see their baby too,” she asks, breathless.

“Why do you care about their kid?”

“It’ll make good practice for when my brother is here. I could hold him and Grace could teach me how to change diapers.”

“Fine.” Oliver goes to turn away again, but Kit grabs him this time. He’s stronger than Camille, Oliver unable to tear his arm away quite so soon. “What now?”

“How do you figure on getting us outta here,” he asks. “Everyone still thinks I’m Bloody Face and the courts have records of Grace murdering her entire family. Granted, they had it coming.” Kit says this to Camille, keeping a tight hold on Oliver’s jacket. “Her dad was an abusive shit and everyone else looked the other way. You know how it is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kit looks back to Oliver at the snapped question, raising his brows.

“That I wouldn’t be surprised if her uncle turned up dead one day. What did you take from it?” Lana gives them a wicked grin as she passes, tapping one finger against the plastic baggy sticking out of her purse. _The taped confession_. “Lana’s the only one that knows where the tape is hidden.”

“Then talk to her. I’m sure she’ll tell you where it is when she learns what’s happened to your child. She’s an expectant mother, after all. They tend to let their emotions get the better of them.” Camille really wants to strangle him with his own tie, but she’d be better off doing that in the comfort of their home. Less witnesses there.

“But what if she doesn’t?”

“Then have my daughter talk to her.” The front door swings open, the nun and Lana walking out into newfound freedom. Kit and Camille relax in tandem, letting out sighs of relief. Their part in this charade is finished, Lana will take it from here. _Lady’s one tough cookie_.

“Alright, deal. I’ll see what I can do.”

Kit walks off and Oliver turns right as the door starts to close, catching sight of Lana walking out. He can’t know it’s her, not with the bulky coat and headscarf, but it seems he’s got his own magical powers as he starts forward. Camille chases after him, her shoes clicking against the tiles and nearly making her slip at one point. She grabs onto her father partly to slow him down and partly because she’d really rather not break her ankle in a pair of flats. They hit the steps right as Lana climbs into a taxi, Oliver narrowing his eyes when Lana holds up his confession against the window.

Camille can’t hold in her laugh when Lana flips him off.

**1953**

Allison Miller is found dead in her home on the three year anniversary of her daughter’s abduction. The main suspect in the case is an ex-husband, a man with a violent temper and a rap sheet to go with it, but they have to rule him out when they find him in Kansas.

The man, it turns out, couldn’t possibly have committed the murder since he’d been home the entire week with his niece. The girl has the flu, he told them, and he’s the only one around to take care of her while her father is working. The lead investigator takes one look at the little girl and wants to pull his hair out.

“What’s your niece’s name,” he asks. The girl is six and bundled up on the couch, eyes glazed over from her high fever and cheeks flushed a bright red.

The suspect puts a hand on her head, possessive, and says,” Camille Thredson. My friend adopted her and I’m helping to take care of her since her mother died last month.” The investigator had worked on the Miller abduction, he sees that baby’s face whenever he closes his eyes, and he _knows_ who that six year old is. He also knows he has no evidence.

“Do you have adoption records?” Turns out, Doctor Oliver Thredson keeps meticulous records in his home office. He’s able to pull out adoption papers, a birth certificate, and even a social security card. The doctor, much like the suspect, is far too calm for the investigator’s liking. Normal men would be sweating by now even if they didn’t have something to hide, but these men are unflappable.

“If that’s all, I really need to be getting Cami to her doctor’s appointment,” the suspect says. His blue eyes flash briefly, a dead-eyed thing that makes the investigator think of sharks. As he walks out of the house, he knows the men inside are guilty of Allison’s murder and Camille’s abduction. He knows it in his bones and there’s not a shred of evidence that lets him take them to the station.

He pours himself a drink when he gets home and adds Allison’s murder to Cameron Miller’s rap sheet.

**1964**

Camille loses track of reality for a while, her memories fracturing until all she can grasp onto is the feeling of warm blood on her cheek and broken porcelain in her hand. Later, when the drugs have worn off and Gage is snuggled next to her in the hospital bed, she can remember a bit more.

_Lana waiting at home with a pistol in hand, shooting Oliver before he could shoot her. “I’m clearly insane,” he’d laughed, a martini in hand._

_The interview with the police, exonerating Kit in the whole Bloody Face debacle once and for all._

_A police officer a few days later saying they’d tracked down her birth father only to have Cameron Lee Miller walk into the station with a dashing grin and a warning in his eyes._

The rest she has a perfect recall of, the way he’d pulled his belt off to make her _take your goddamned medicine, you little pup_. She’d accidentally spilled coffee on his hand and he’d gotten angry with her since young ladies aren’t supposed to be clumsy. He’d called her a worthless whore, told her she was just like her whore of a mother and he was glad that he’d killed her.

She doesn’t remember the first blow, just that he was suddenly kneeling in front of her as though to beg forgiveness, a sheet of blood running down his face from the vicious cut along his hairline. The mug in her hand is still warm, but the coffee has spilled across the floor and her arm. She finds she doesn’t mind the burn as she brings the cup down again and again until his face is in ruins.

She sets the busted mug on the kitchen table and sweeps past him to get the landline. The dispatcher is calm and Camille is calmer ( _the shock_ , a doctor explains later. _it’s a hell of a thing, miss thredson_ ), and the police arrive ten minutes later with sirens blaring.

Everything blurs together after that, a shot in her arm to keep her calm, her clothes replaced by baggy spares since hers are covered in blood and are to be held as evidence. Now here she is, in a hospital bed with the radio playing and Gage brushing his fingers through her hair. It feels like heaven.

It feels like home.


	11. The Passing of Time

**1968**

Camille gives birth to her son in the summer, a little boy named Aaron Nathaniel Kincaid. He’s small for his age with a full head of curls and a smile just like his daddy’s. She holds him as soon as the drugs wear off, brushing her finger over his forehead and nose, tracing his smile.

“He’s perfect,” she says, whispering so as not to wake him. “Our little miracle.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Gage runs a hand over Aaron’s curls.

“Mom’s gonna love that she’s his namesake.”

“She’s strong and that’s what I want our baby to be. He’s gotta be strong in this world.” Aaron makes a small noise, eyes fluttering open. They’re blue right now and she hopes they stay that way. The same shade as Gage’s and not the dark ones of Cameron. She doesn’t want to remember her biological father and she prays Aaron won’t inherit any of his quirks.

“She said her and Pops will be here by the weekend to help out. Said something about vacation days she can’t wait to cash in.”

“I can’t picture your mom and dad in New Orleans.” She laughs, imagining the fanny pack and knee-high socks look that Jackson will probably try to pull off. Erin will wear shorts and tank tops, spending the weekend gushing over the baby while Jackson sobs hysterically in the background. At least, that’s how Gage says things will go.

“Mama will be just fine here. Apart from being extraordinarily white, she’ll blend in. Pops, on the other hand, will be bait for every pickpocket in the area.” She laughs again, leaning against her pillows and settling the baby against her chest. One little hand curls around the collar of her nightgown, fingers tightening and relaxing.

“A package arrived yesterday,” Camille says after a moment. Gage hums, running long fingers over Aaron’s back. He’s completely enamored with their son already, turning soft and pliable. This baby is going to be spoiled. “It was from Lana.”

“What’d she want?”

“She sent me an advanced copy of her book.” It’s little more than a manuscript, not due to be released until next year, but she had sent it anyway. “It’s…. There’s not a whole lot of the truth left in it after the rewrites.” She’d read the thing and then burned it, old memories creeping up on her until the contractions started.

“I told her to leave us alone after the last letter.” Gage shakes his head, sending a disgusted look out the window. The last letter had made Gage so angry that he’d thrown one of the café chairs across the sidewalk, scratching up the durable metal. Lana had asked for details of Camille’s abuse at Cameron’s hands, asked how she felt when she lured Miss Burton and Allison Rydell to their deaths. Camille’s return letter had been simple, only two words: _fuck you_.

“We all have to deal in our own ways, I guess. None of us can go see a therapist after what Daddy did.” Not Camille or Lana or Kit, not after the way Oliver had manipulated them and hurt them. Therapy is an off limits thing because every therapist morphs into Oliver. At least, that’s what happens when Camille tries.

“Get some rest, Cami. I’ll take care of the baby.”

**1971**

“Are you excited,” Gage asks, helping Aaron into his coat.

“Yeah!” The three year old bounces excitedly on the couch, making it all the more difficult to actually get the coat on him. Gage doesn’t get mad, though, he just laughs and bounces along with him. “Gonna see my friends!”

“That’s right, sprout.” Camille grins, snapping a picture for the album she’s putting together. It’s half full already, names and dates written in her chicken scratch at the bottom of each polaroid before it’s glued in place. It’ll be a wedding present one day, when Aaron is twenty-three and his young bride is twenty. “But we can only go see ‘em if you get your coat on.”

“Okay, Daddy.” He’s still long enough for Gage to slide the denim over his shoulder, then he’s off the couch and sprinting for the front door. Behind the front desk, a clerk is watching the spectacle with something caught between a grimace and a smile. “Let’s go!”

“Hold your horses,” Camille laughs. She and Gage each take one of Aaron’s hands and lead him out into the bright sunlight of early afternoon, the little boy grinning as he takes in the sights. It’s his first time in Boston and it seems to agree with him.

“It smells funny here.”

“Why’s that?”

“Nobody’s cookin’, Mama.”

“If you’re good at Uncle Kit’s house, then we’ll take you to the bakery Daddy used to own.” They’d lived there together for two years before they moved to Louisiana to avoid the growing amount of reporters Lana had inadvertently sent their way. Gage and Camille Kincaid are nobodies in New Orleans and they’d like to keep it that way.

They ride to Kit’s farmhouse in Gage’s old pickup, the motor purring just like it used to. The radio is playing a Thurston Harris song that Aaron almost has memorized, singing along clumsily and humming the parts he doesn’t know yet.

Kit’s waiting outside when they pull up, a little girl balanced on his hip and a little boy holding his hand. All three are beaming at them, all three sharing the same puppy-dog smile that makes Camille remember a rainy night at Briarcliff where she first saw one of Kit Walker’s little green men. She hasn’t ever talked about that night since 1964, but seeing his smile, Camille thinks they’re both ready to get it off their chests. He’s the godfather of her son, they shouldn’t have secrets.

That night, when Gage is sound asleep on the couch and Jude has taken the little ones to her room for a story, Kit and Camille bare their souls to each other. Kit tells her about the aliens and Alma while Camille tells him about her father’s belt and the librarian she’d been so fond of.

The passing of time doesn’t seem real for a long time after that, not until her son curls up in her arms with a yawn and says,” Julia and Thomas are so special, Mama.” He’s sound asleep after that, dreaming about Princes and dragons.

“Is he like you,” Kit asks. “Can he see the balloons?”

“No,” she says with a smile. “My boy’s just perceptive, is all. And he’s right, Kit, your kids are special.”

**1997**

Erika Grace Kincaid is born at three o’clock in the morning, a bald and screaming thing that didn’t quiet until she was placed in her nana’s arms. Delilah is sound asleep in the hospital bed, Aaron fussing over her and Cordelia, Delilah’s best friend, fussing over him.

Camille takes the newborn over to the window that overlooks the parking lot and a somewhat decent view of New Orleans. Erika is swaddled in a soft blanket that Gage had knitted, her face paler now that she isn’t screaming her little head off. In fact, she’s almost asleep as Camille starts to bounce her gently.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she promises,” you’re going to have a happy ending. Parts in the middle will be bumpy and you’ll eventually have to toss the Antichrist across the room, but you’ll get your happy ending.”

“Ba,” says Erika, which Camille takes to mean _well, of course I will, I’m cute_. Camille grins down at her granddaughter, seeing bright spots of yellow behind her eyes. The baby is happy and that’s all Camille can bring herself to care about.

“You’re going to be a teacher at a school meant for Witches, you know. Well-respected and all that jazz.” The baby makes another sound, the yellow growing brighter. “My daddy used to talk to me like this when I was little. He’d tell me all sorts of things and some of them were even the truth. He was a bad guy, but there was a bit of good in him.”

“Aba.” Camille takes that to mean _you turned out just fine even if you do have gray hair now_. She doesn’t mind, gray hair suits her far more than the arthritis in her knees. “Gobba.” _Will you sing to me before I throw a fit so loud that it wakes my mommy?_ Of course she’ll sing, she knows just the song.

_“Earth angel, earth angel, will you be mine? My darling dear, love you all the time. I’m just a fool in love with you._ ”

**2001**

It’s late when Camille wakes up, moonlight shining in past gossamer curtains that have seen better days. The ends have started to fray and there’s a few holes in it, but she couldn’t make herself throw them away after Oliver and Cameron were dead. Now, as she watches them flutter in an impossible breeze, a familiar form appears.

“Have you been around this whole time,” she asks, voice hoarse. The person gives her a bright smile and sits on the edge of her bed, petting her hair just like he used to. If she closes her eyes, she could imagine that she’s a young girl again, but she’s not ready to close her eyes quite yet.

“How could I possibly leave without you,” he asks, voice the same baritone she remembers. His hands are gentle as they cup her face, thumbs brushing across her cheeks. “You’ve done good, Cami. I’m so proud of you.” Another person steps out of the darkness, her blonde hair hanging in thick waves down her back. Camille knows who it is, though there’s no possible way she should.

“Ma?”

“Hi, baby,” Allison greets. She perches on the bed next to Oliver, batting his hands away so she can cup Camille’s face herself. Allison Miller’s hands are soft as they trace Camille’s nose, her smile kind when Camille huffs out a breath. “It’s time to go. Are you ready?” Camille glances over at her husband, Gage sound asleep against her back with an arm thrown over her waist.

“How could I possibly leave my husband?” Allison’s smile turns sad and Oliver rolls his eyes.

“He’ll be joining us in a few months.”

“And my granddaughter?”

“Erika will be just fine,” Oliver promises. “I may not be able to join my own daughter in heaven due to some of my past exploits and the fact that a black-haired angel has it in for me, but I can watch over my great-granddaughter. I’ll make sure she survives the coming war.”

“The Antichrist—”

“I have it on good authority that he won’t win, sweetheart.” Camille nods, relaxing back in bed. She rests her hand on top of Gage’s, twining their fingers together. Even sound asleep, he squeezes her hand in return. “Go to sleep and I’ll see you when you wake up again.”

“Will you sing to me, Daddy? Like you used to?”

“Anything for my little angel.” She closes her eyes as he sings and another person joins the room, a pale woman with red lips and a soothing voice. A glove-covered hand brushes Camille’s cheek and soft lips press against her own.

With a quiet breath and a flutter of wings, Camille let’s herself float away.

* * *

[Songs Used](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLMThOqpxbYooRnhUqYHZ61ig9YfPD-ugm) [Kincaid Family](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/7720ea64-71b6-48fd-98e9-efc8d0ce1860/ddn6yj3-e1330eb1-4b8d-41a4-83fa-712712586b0d.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzc3MjBlYTY0LTcxYjYtNDhmZC05OGU5LWVmYzhkMGNlMTg2MFwvZGRuNnlqMy1lMTMzMGViMS00YjhkLTQxYTQtODNmYS03MTI3MTI1ODZiMGQuanBnIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.JU2Ykmh3KegD9M94F-QJdMO-EVCLIY_z_NYgcCuqwd0) [Thredson Family](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/7720ea64-71b6-48fd-98e9-efc8d0ce1860/ddn70tq-0173053f-5127-4c06-8e5c-2d728409f3df.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzc3MjBlYTY0LTcxYjYtNDhmZC05OGU5LWVmYzhkMGNlMTg2MFwvZGRuNzB0cS0wMTczMDUzZi01MTI3LTRjMDYtOGU1Yy0yZDcyODQwOWYzZGYuanBnIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.lw5_Sw1feYfrk8M5F2lp9embUCnfksaDlBE3q8vqG3U)


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